Riley trudged back to his apartment, on 67th Straylock Street, his boots crunching against the cracked pavement as the cold night air nipped at his face. Madrid's streets were empty, save for a few flickering streetlights casting jagged shadows on the walls.
His mind replayed the events of the night—Jakes' throat splitting open, Valeria's desperate struggle, the woman's wild accusations about him being a murderer. Her words echoed louder than he wanted them to.
He pushed through the heavy iron door of his apartment building, the hinges groaning in protest as he entered the rundown lobby. The place smelled of mildew and decay, just like everything else in the slums. Riley took the rickety staircase two steps at a time, his thoughts racing ahead of him. The dim light in the hallway flickered above as he reached his door, unlocking it with a mechanical click.
