Frank squinted against the morning sun as he stepped out of the apartment.
His coat was half-buttoned, his hair still refusing to lie flat, and he was muttering to himself about Juliet, system flags, and why every meaningful cosmic event in his life happened before breakfast.
"I just wanted to sleep," he grumbled, tugging his hood over his head. "Just one day. No curses. No contracts. Maybe a breakfast burrito."
The streets were calm—mercifully. A few hunters on hoverboards zipped by, and some old guy was shouting at a floating vending machine for stealing his tokens.
Frank crossed two blocks and slipped into the corner stall bakery where the bread didn't taste like ration chalk.
Five minutes later, he walked out with a foil-wrapped sandwich and a steaming cup of decent coffee. Victory.
For five minutes.
Until someone fell into step beside him.
"Trader Frank Hagan?"
Frank didn't look up. Just kept walking.
"I don't do interviews."
