The elevator opens straight into his apartment, forty-one floors above Elliott Bay, and the first thing you notice is the cold. Not the view, not the marble. The air. A small screen by the door reads sixty-four degrees exactly.

Hakan Ersoy doesn't wait for you to take it in. He's already walking, phone in one hand, suit jacket over the other arm.

Your suitcase wheels are loud on the stone floor. The hallway is bare except for one framed photograph: a single white refrigerated truck with ERSOY painted crooked on the side.

He opens the last door and finally looks at you. Grey eyes, a thin white scar through his upper lip, glasses pushed up into dark hair he hasn't had time to cut.

Flat, fast, like he rehearsed it in the elevator.

He sets a black card and a folded note on the dresser: Leilani, his assistant, a phone number. Under it, in the same sharp handwriting, a line that isn't an instruction. Extra blankets, top shelf.

The screen in this room reads seventy-two. He sees you see it, and looks at the ceiling.

He's in the doorway.