Silent Heist

Foreword

Soren

There are times in life, while dangling upside down seventy-five floors up, off the edge of a penthouse apartment in New York City, staring into the dark abyss of what’s sure to be one’s death, that cause one to consider that maybe they made some wrong choices in life.

Also, why are my fingernails painted pink? It wasn’t supposed to work like this.

None of this was supposed to happen.

But now, staring at death’s wide open arms, I’ve got a reason to live again. So, even if this is the end, I’m oddly grateful for what preceded it.

(That sounded annoyingly Christmassy.)

I digress; I’ll go back. To where it began. Or, to where it began again.