The Collector stood in the hallway, a silhouette against the pre-dawn grey. It was humanoid but wrong—too tall, limbs slightly too long, wearing a patchwork coat made of what looked like tarps and mirrors. Its face was a smooth, featureless oval, but Leo had learned to read its mood by the way light slid across its surface. Right now, the light was flat. Impatient.
The notification arrived at 6:00 AM sharp, not as a gentle chime but as a low, guttural hum that vibrated through the floorboards of Leo’s apartment. He didn’t need to check his wristband. The hum meant the Waste was ready. waste pickup
Leo swung his legs out of bed and padded barefoot across the cold concrete floor. The closet door in his studio apartment had a faint, sickly green glow seeping from its edges. He could hear it moving in there—a soft, wet shuffling, like a stack of old photographs being stirred by a damp breeze. The Collector stood in the hallway, a silhouette