Jonah Mercer parked under the theater marquee that stubbornly read LIVE TONIGHT in bulbs half-out and half-humid. Rain had been flirting with the city all afternoon and finally committed to a steady, polite drizzle—one of those rains that left the pavement smelling like warm concrete and garlic from the corner stall. The vendor, an old man with a scar that ran like a question mark beside his left eye, always kept a pot of garlic broth on the cart. He waved at Jonah, and Jonah returned the wave without stopping; there were things that required his attention, and driving through soup seemed like tempting fate.
Halcyon House lifted itself out of the drizzle like a stubborn tooth: lacquered mid-century panels browned with weather, a glass breeze-block canopy, and the brass letters over the door, dulled to a confident lack of shine. A potted palm leaned in the lobby as if to eavesdrop. Someone had hung a string of chipped ceramic fish above the mailboxes—Evelyn's contribution, a neighbor told him once. It made the lobby look like a cracked aquarium.
Jonah clicked his toolkit shut with the kind of satisfaction an engineer permits himself before a disorder. He checked the level on his phone app; it reported sensible numbers. He had told himself the evening would be a simple sweep: a few measurements, a few photos, a polite nod to maintenance, then home to an apartment that smelled indecently of instant coffee and a toaster that declared war on bread. He slung his case and stepped through the door.
Mateo, who smelled like grease and lemon polish, was behind the desk. He had a habit of wearing work shirts as if they were medals. He didn't look up at first, then raised a head with the slow friendliness of a man who has run out of surprise. "You bring the fun tonight, Mercer? Or the heavy fun?"
Jonah tried a grin that wanted to be a levelling joke. "I brought instruments. Depends on whether the building plans to cooperate or throw a tantrum."
Mateo barked a laugh that surprised neither of them. "Oh, it's been moody. Doors slamming, flats waking to different carpets. Mrs. Calder swears the staircase hummed a tune this morning."
Jonah exchanged a look with the desk lamp, which hummed too, small and domestic. There was an awkward theater to how people described Halcyon's behavior, as if the building kept eccentric hours. He set his case on the desk and drew out the red laser level. It cast a calm line across the tiled counter like a statement of intent.