She clenched the handrail, the metronome echo of her heels on the metal staircase confirmation that she was still heading down, deeper.
She needed Help. Money. Only desperation drove her onward. She had passed the thunder of subway lines what felt like hours before, and was increasingly sure she’d been punked. She almost turned around.
But then she saw the landing. “Dispater Investments, O. Plutos, President” clear on the smoked glass.
She pushed it open.
Coal-bright eyes looked up at her from behind an ancient desk. His hands – glittering with rings – were folded, as if in prayer.
Image Credit: Andy Rennie