The Ferreri Daytona SR3 drifted to a halt at the curb of 5th Street, its idling engine a low, predatory growl that seemed entirely out of place in this neglected corner of the city. Rex stepped out, his gaze sweeping over the storefront of 'The Velvet Bean.'
He had expected a quaint, bohemian spot. Instead, he saw a relic.
The gold lettering on the window was peeling like sunburnt skin. A "Closed" sign hung crookedly, and the glass was so coated in grime it looked like a cataract. To Rex's newly sensitized ears, the building didn't have a rhythm; it had a wheeze. It was a discordant note in the middle of a rising city.
"Worse than I thought," Rex muttered, adjusting his cardigan.
He pushed the door open. A bell chimed—a flat, cracked sound that set his teeth on edge. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale roasted beans and ancient dust. The floorboards groaned under his designer boots in a minor key.
