The studio corridor smelled of stale coffee and ozone, the particular scent of a building that had been running since morning and was now approaching its second wind without having slept. Wayne arrived at 10:47 PM, still wearing the shirt he had planned to have dinner in, the collar loosened but the jacket abandoned in his car. He had not eaten. He had been holding a fork over linguine when Dayo's call came through, and he had stared at the phone for three full rings before answering, already knowing that whatever followed would ruin his evening.
He was right.
