I slap the elevator button so hard it jams for a second, then blinks like it’s trying to make up its mind. My shirt clings to my back. I loosen my tie but it’s already soaked through at the collar. My palms are slick. The envelope in my pocket is damp, soft around the edges. Five thousand dollars.
That’s it.
That’s all we have left.
The elevator opens and I step in alone. The mirrored walls reflect a man who looks exactly like what he is—exhausted, desperate, and pretending he’s not. I punch the button for the lobby, then press my forehead to the cool metal wall and close my eyes.
It’s over if this doesn’t work. That’s not a figure of speech. That’s a ledger line.
We owe twenty-four thousand for Monday’s jet fuel. Twenty-four thousand to keep the planes flying, the team working, the lights on.
And I have five.
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