Be My Good Boy
There was only the low, expensive hum of the refrigerator.
At 06:00:15, the buzzer rang.
Adrian felt a sharp, electric jolt in his solar plexus. He took a measured breath, counting to four—inhale, hold, exhale—before pressing the intercom.
"State your name and purpose," Adrian said, his voice a cool broadcast.
"It’s your favorite disaster, Counselor. Open up before I start spray-painting your neighbor's door."
Adrian pressed the release. Three minutes later, there was a heavy, rhythmic thumping against his mahogany front door—not a knock, but a kick from a combat boot.
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