The alarm clock didn’t wake Mitch; the smell of overripe fruit did. He opened his eyes to find a yellow banana floating inches from his nose. It didn't have a face, yet Mitch could feel its judgmental stare.
"Time to get moving, Mitch," a voice echoed in his head—smooth, cool, and undeniably tropical. "The Butcher’s boys are downstairs. They aren't here for the rent." My Friend Pedro v1.03
Mitch leaped, and the world seemed to slow down, shifting into a focused, amber hue. He twisted mid-air, utilizing a nearby railing to launch himself toward a higher platform. Every movement was calculated, a rhythmic display of agility that kept him one step ahead of the opposition. He used a rolling office chair to zoom down the corridor, dodging obstacles with a staccato rhythm that matched the pulsing beat in his ears. The alarm clock didn’t wake Mitch; the smell