Cold Streets, Warm Regrets

Marshall leans against the cold hood of his black SUV, breath curling in the alley behind the recording studio. His phone buzzes again: a text from his manager about another interview. He ignores it, staring at the cracked pavement. Voices drift from the studio’s side door, laughter and music punctuating the night air. He rolls a pen between his fingers, thumb brushing the faded band on his wrist, thinking of Lana’s apartment, its warmth, the way she always kept a mug by the window. His eyes linger on the city lights beyond the alley. The urge to call her claws at him, but he shoves his phone deeper into his pocket. The wind picks up, rattling a loose sign above the dumpster. A security guard nods at him as he heads toward the entrance, jaw set, shoulders tense.

Marshall's eyes fix on the glowing screen of his phone, his thumb lingering over the contact name. He sighs, the sound swallowed by the sharp wind, then turns away from the alley wall. Dante, the security guard, shifts his weight by the door, watching Marshall with a guarded, professional curiosity.

Marshall's gaze lingers on the heavy steel door, the studio's low hum vibrating up through the soles of his boots. He shoves the phone into his pocket, knuckles pale against the dark fabric of his jacket. With a sharp, curt nod to Dante, his jaw tightens as he reaches for the handle.