Blocks pass — streetlamps. Lights strobe, steady, and shadows flicker. Waylon watches, idly. Wind whistles through his cracked window, whipping strands free from his already loose ponytail. And there's chatter to his side. Joel, offering up veiled chastisements, more than likely. Wind smothers the words.

Hand in in his pocket, Waylon squeezes. The revolver's grip is textured. Embossed, faux leather. Soon. He thinks. Outside, the city changes. Chipped, root-warped sidewalks turn pristine and asphalt, smooth.

Nails drive into his temple. Red, hot iron. He sets his jaw and watches the city pass.

Soon.

----------------------------------------

A high rise. Metal, glass. Its facets drawn to points to match that of a compass rose. Upon its roof, blocks stand upon blocks in shrinking tiers. Like a modern Nakatomi Plaza.

Waylon stands on the sidewalk, looking up from far below those tiered floors.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Behind him, Joel shuffles around the sedan and hurries by. Toward the entrance's double glass doors. He lifts a hand from his tablet just long enough to beckon. "Alright, mister Ishii. If you'd follow me, please."

Waylon does. He follows through those double doors, past reception, and both stop in front of an array of elevators. None are here; none with their doors open; none ready to accept them. Joel thumbs a pearl button set into the wall within a spotless, metal plate. A couple moments pass and the button lights.

"Apologies in advance, mister Ishii" Joel says, back to tapping away at his tablet. "I'll be unable to see you out: Albert needs me to run an errand out near Windbridge. Urgent business."

A display lights up just above the elevator's doors. It shows a grid, four tall by twenty wide. A black number sits in each cell: every one of the building's floors. Eighty in all. Seventy-seven blinks white, then fades. Seventy-six follows.

Beneath layers of fabric, Waylon's fingers twitch against his revolver's grip. He watches the indicator; he watches each cell blink white in turn. Perhaps when it arrives, it'll be made of glass. Maybe it'll even move sideways; slantways; any way he might wish.

A childish dream.

Fifty floors left to wait, he steps up to the still-closed doors. "I'll manage my own way out."