m•matti

The sun had just begun its dip behind the splinter-bricked skyline, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to reach down to claw at the pavement. The city was a kaleidoscope of neon and fractured brick, but his business this night was in a flower shop. Not the kind where

Blake sat slouched at the end of the bar, nursing the last of his downmarket bourbon. The place was quiet, the kind of quiet that came with weight, as if something bad had just happened or was soon to. He took a tight sip and scanned the room, dwelling on

In the flickering neon glare of a city that never quits, a battered van delivers newspaper bundles each morning to a labyrinth of century-old alleys. The headlines snarled, like rabid curs, to the frightened few left of the late night wanderers. Gutters, overflowing with oily rain scum, caught the