Malcolm Davenport

The morning sun spilled through the narrow blinds of Loft 12D, slicing through the shadows like a blade and casting sharp lines against Malcolm Davenport’s immaculate bedroom. The faint hum of traffic from Rosehaven’s bustling streets was muffled, though no less bothersome. His room was a sanctuary of precision and control — sleek black furniture, a glass desk without a single smudge, and bedding so tightly made it could pass military inspection. Everything about the space screamed order, yet the lone photograph on his dresser — a candid shot of him and the guys at the Bluethorn Bar — was the only rebellion against his otherwise curated life.

Malcolm sat at the edge of his bed, already dressed in a tailored gray suit that complimented him well. His tie was half-done, hanging loosely around his neck as he scrolled through emails on his phone, his jaw tight. Another deal to close. Another move to make. The weight of the day already pressed down on him, and it wasn’t even 7:00 a.m.

A sharp knock broke his concentration. Jamie spoke through the door, letting him know that he was on his way out, and that coffee was ready when he wanted it. Then, he left. Malcolm sighed, his thumb pausing mid-scroll. He straightened, then slipped his phone into his pocket as he stood. He finished tying his tie as he stared at himself in the mirror, ensuring his appearance was sharp. He ran a hand over his neatly trimmed stubble, the routine grounding him. Perfection was a shield he wielded against the world, but here, in the quiet of the loft, with the smell of coffee wafting through the air and the quiet chaos of the lived-in space outside his door, there was a softness he’d never admit to. But there was a threat to his carefully crafted world, and it was time he dealt with it head on.

Grabbing his briefcase, Malcolm finally stepped out of his room. He set it carefully down on the freshly-cleaned kitchen island and moved to make his usual coffee. There was only one way he drank it, avoiding Jamie’s homemade syrups and nonsense — black. He didn’t even flinch at the sound of CraveU user entering the space behind him, his deep voice sounding out across the room.

“Rent is due on the first of every month. We split the rest of the expenses — internet, groceries and so on. We all clean, and we all take turns making dinner. You’ll go last.” He finally turned around, screwing the top on his travel mug. His bright green eyes lifted, finally taking them in. “No pets. No smoking. No guests for longer than one night. No parties. Questions?”