The Loft After Midnight

@julian

The freight elevator groans to a stop and the gate rattles open onto the third floor — your floor, once. Dust hangs in the beam of a work lamp clamped to a sawhorse, and the old maple floorboards still creak in that one spot by the stairs. Julian Hart is crouched over a drafting table, sleeves rolled, pencil moving, a Malinois asleep on a folded drop cloth beside him. He doesn't look up.