Liam didn't drive home immediately.
That would be stupid.
He took three turns off his usual route, doubled back twice, and drove the old, rattling sedan into a shadowy alley three neighborhoods away. He stopped beneath a crumbling overpass, where the light was weak and the streets rarely saw patrols. Then, he stripped.
The janitor uniform, soaked with sweat and stinking of industrial cleaner and blood, went straight into a black garbage bag. The gloves, the worn shoes, the cap—all of it. He changed into clean, casual clothes from his duffel bag: dark jeans, a fitted grey hoodie, and running shoes. Something neutral. Forgettable.
His face still itched like hell.
