The clock ticked coldly on the wall. It was an immaculate looking thing, white, bland, but expensive, like the rest of the room’s décor. The room seemed a respite from its immediate surroundings since the rest of the neighborhood definitely, defiantly gave off a black market vibe of seediness. You wouldn’t know looking at the place that it was operating in a strictly illegal sense. How they dressed up this place to make it appear otherwise. The man waiting on the couch eyed the quartz clock untrustingly. He fidgeted on the seat while the receptionist did a memory puzzle at the desk—he knew because when he had checked in at her desk, he could see it next to her computer. He shuddered and looked around for the ventilation duct; he thought he felt a draft in the room, but maybe it was just his body playing a trick on him. Maybe it was because he shouldn’t be here.
Tick tick tick, the second hand swept through its motions; with each tick, another mome