Neon Shadows at the Edge of Tomorrow
It’s 3:33 a.m., the hour when rational thought slips out the back door for a smoke and the walls start whispering dirty secrets. Fil’s got blood under his nails again. Not his. Not recently. Maybe metaphorical. Depends on who’s asking. He’s parked in a rust-coloured diner booth that smells like old eggs and last chances. …