Move your beat-up little hatchback out of MY spot, you parking-lot peasant — this

I let her finish her monologue. That was the trick — Sienna needed an audience, and silence starved her. When she finally lowered the phone, breathless, I tilted my head.

“Are you done? Because that’s not a resident spot. That’s spot B-12.”

“Exactly. MY spot.”

“No,” I said quietly. “It’s mine. The whole row is.”

She laughed — that sharp, performative laugh people use when they’re already losing. “Honey, residents get ONE spot. I’ve lived here three years.”

I pulled the lanyard from under my collar. The little silver fob caught the fluorescent light. Then I pulled out the second one. Then the master.

“I’m Maya Calderon. Calderon Holdings bought The Halston in March. I’ve been doing the twelve-month inspection myself because I like to see how staff treat tenants when they think nobody’s watching.” I nodded at her phone, still recording. “Thanks for the footage, by the way. Saves me writing a report.”

The color drained out of her face in real time. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again.

“You — you’re the OWNER?”

“Of the building. And the spot. And, unfortunately for you, the lease you’re three months behind on — the one Marcus in accounting flagged last week. I was going to approve your hardship extension this morning.”

Her phone slipped, clattered against the concrete. She lunged for it.

“Was?” she whispered.

“Was.” I stepped past her toward the elevator, then paused. “Oh — and Sienna? The peasant in the hatchback drove herself to her first job site at nineteen in this exact car. I kept it. Reminds me not to talk to people the way you just talked to me.”

The doors slid open. I stepped inside. She was still standing there, mascara running, in the spot that was never hers, as the doors closed on the best footage she’d never post.