The Third Night

@damien

The lift groans to a stop three floors below street level — the button didn't say it went there. Fluorescent light hums over scuffed parquet, and the air smells of sweat, liniment and the cold metal tang of blades. Damien Blackwood is at the far end in shirtsleeves and no tie, rolling his wrist loose, and he doesn't look surprised to see you. "You followed me," he says, evenly. "Fine."