There he sits, thinking deeply in a dark room. The last room to the left down a, what seems endless, hallway of a rundown office building. The building stands jammed between several others like it; all old, gray, and covered in graffiti along an abandoned road. You can hear cars zooming to their destination along a close by highway.
There he sits, on a black swivel chair, almost slouching with his eyes closed. His hands running through his bleached blonde hair, to short to be styled yet to long to prickle his fingertips. His face a bit damp from cold sweat that glistens.
There he sits, with the only source of light coming from a lamp above his head. The lamp sways every so slightly by a breeze sneaking through the open window behind him. Papers upon his dark, mahogany desk flutter off and around the floor into darkness.
There he sits, with one hour before midnight. One hour to make right of what he has done wrong. One hour before the scar-faced man comes, with his pinstriped suit and black, leather briefcase. The briefcase, that was meant to be filled with green paper, will remain empty and become covered red substance.
There he sits, waiting for the footsteps. The footsteps that will walk from a silver mustang up the sidewalk to the door of the abandoned office building. The footsteps that will find their way walking down the, what seems endless, hallway to the last door on the left. The footsteps that will enter the dark room and find him, dead.
There he sits.
