Not my style at all.

The streets were my place. I belonged in the cracks of society, in the gutters and alleys, where life was worth what you made it worth and death was always staring you in the face. The elevator that took me up to the 35th floor of One Shell Square chimed with some sort of ambient, orchestral piece that ground on my nerves. Everything was clean except for the smudge of grime on the button marked 35.

I stepped out of the elevator into a spacious lobby, a large wood desk in front of me. A pretty blond woman sat behind it. To her credit, she didn’t even blink when I approached.

“How may I help you, sir?”

“Got a meeting here.”

“Your name?”

“That shit important to know?”

She frowned and wrinkled her nose. I wondered how often she practiced that frown in a mirror. A blinking light set into the desk caught her attention, and she smiled at me.

“Mr. Lancombe will see you, sir. Suite 3503. Second door on your right.”

The door opened when I came to it. Three men in black suits were waiting.