The rusted neon sign buzzed faintly overhead as Levi leaned against the chipped brick wall of a boarded-up convenience store, arms wrapped around himself to fend off the cold. His clothes were wrinkled, his shirt still partially unbuttoned, and a thin trail of dried blood lingered on the cuff of his sleeve from where the cameraman's blood had splattered. The early morning air was sharp, but the adrenaline still coursing through him dulled the sensation.
A pair of headlights sliced through the darkness and slowed as a sleek black SUV rolled into view. The vehicle pulled up beside him, and the driver's side window lowered.
"Jesus Christ," Chris muttered, peering out. "You look like hell."
Levi didn't respond. He simply opened the passenger door and collapsed into the seat with a groan. Chris leaned over, scanning him for injuries.
"Did someone beat the crap out of you, or is this just... high fashion after a breakdown?"
