After a rough, scared minutes of easing himself, followed by a quick gush of flushing water that echoed in the toilet's calm and quiet, Fedora pushed the door open and stepped out of the stall and into the neat, cold corridor, where fluorescent lights beamed, and Ac's hummed, alongside rows of sinks and mirrors hung and suspended on the wall like a gallery of silent witnesses.
Fedora walked over to one of the sinks, flicked the lever into a rushing stream of pristine liquid, and began to wash his hands. After a hot minute of rinsing and squeezing his fingers under the spray, he flicked off the sink. He used his wet hands to brush off imaginary dust from his outfit, his palms damp against the fabric as he tried to steady his breathing.
