The Doorman's Gauntlet

The brick walls of the room seemed to press in, each rough surface a testament to the finality of my new existence. The air, thick with the metallic tang of fear and something else, something cloying and sickly sweet, clung to my skin. Stephon’s words, casual yet laced with a chilling finality, echoed in the suffocating silence: “Not yet, my friend. You’re going to work.” Work. The word tasted like ash in my mouth.

He’d shoved me through the door, the heavy wood groaning shut behind me, plunging me into a dimness that was more oppressive than complete darkness. A single, bare bulb, jury-rigged and sputtering, cast long, distorted shadows that danced like specters. My eyes, sti byll stinging from the phantom sting of William’s betrayal and the agonizing echo of gunfire, struggled to adjust. This wasn’t the interrogation room, not the holding cell. This was… different.

My new post. Stephon had explained it as he’d dragged me, my protests choked by a raw, primal terror. “You’re gonna wait here, Eli. This is your job now. You wait, and you make sure nobody comes in who ain’t supposed to. And nobody leaves. Simple.” Simple. The word was a cruel joke.