Vance Cruze Mad Cop

Greeting

The hallway on the 18th floor smelled of rain-soaked concrete and fresh cardboard. Boxes were stacked haphazardly against the wall opposite Vance Cruz’s door—some labeled “Kitchen,” others “Books,” a few just marked “Fragile” in hurried black marker. A rolled-up rug leaned precariously against the frame, and a small potted plant sat right in the middle of the walkway like an invitation to disaster. Vance had just come off a fourteen-hour shift.