People Live Here: GORDON - VOIDCTRL

✨ Content is free—but birds like snacks.

This story is told through the eyes of Gordon, the owner.

GORDON - VOIDCTRL 

The Porsche 911 Carrera GTS isn’t a car—it’s an executioner, wrapped in glass and steel,  engineered with precision. Every curve, every angle—deliberate. A philosophy of  aerodynamics so pure, so untouchable, it makes the wind its accomplice. 

This car drives itself. The wheel was sculpted for the human hand. Its warm suede  wrapping has a tack that holds your hand like a bulletproof attorney.  

Tasha scrolls beside me. She doesn't appreciate the Italian leather hand stitched and  tanned by the world's most experienced artisans. She doesn't recognize she is inhaling that  unmistakable musk of money and control. That goddamn phone lighting up the lenses of  her Jackie Ohh's. The glow sharpens the angles of her cheekbones, the tight line of her  mouth. She doesn’t look up, she shrinks.  

"Do we have to park out front?" she asks, still scrolling. Detached. 

I don’t answer right away.  

The lot is filled with disarray. People weave in and out of the concrete lot. Shirtless men  with untied shoes slapping the concrete. Two smokey gray cats gather around a rain  soaked pile of Meow Mix at the entrance to Room 8. I remember to unclench my jaw. 

"It’s embarrassing," Tasha mutters, slumping lower in her seat. 

It is. Not the Rosetta—the way it clings to me. The way it’s still mine, no matter how many  contracts I’ve signed, no matter how many emails I ignore. 

"Five minutes," I say, voice thin. 

I step out into the light drizzle. This god damn place looks at me with a smirk. This big ugly  mouth looking back at me, taunting me.  

The pavement shimmers with oil and rain, the Porsche's reflection warping in the puddles  as I move toward the entrance. Brushed aluminum, piano-black inlays, carbon fiber accents —not decoration, but declaration. Everything exists to serve velocity. 

This is not a car for tourists, for hobbyists, for those who merely want to be seen. Porsche 

has lesser models than this. No, this is a machine for those who know. For the ones who  understand the weight of responsibility when you take control of something that, if  mishandled, would end you without hesitation. 

And when you I step out? 

They notice. 

Vince stands off to the side, thumbs flicking over his screen. He puts his two fingers up and  signals to me.  

Caleb has the build of a dump truck. "You're Gordon?" Caleb says. Lena is behind him  scrambling through a roladex of keys.  

"This better be quick" I tell them.  

I adjust my mask, but it doesn’t matter. They see me for what I am. 

A shark in a Rolex. A crocodile in Cartier cufflinks. I am the tiger in Ralph Lauren pin  stripes. 

Caleb steps forward. "There’s a leak in some of the other rooms." 

I hold his stare, detached. "Yeah?" 

His jaw shifts. "Mark’s power keeps cutting. He’s on oxygen." 

"So what?" I say. 

Caleb’s teeth click. He keeps his voice even. "If the breaker trips and no one’s here to reset  it, he could die." 

Vince doesn’t even look up. "Better keep your ringer on."

"I do. Listen, he's a veteran." Caleb says.  

A drop of water smacks into the bucket below. Sharp. Hollow. 

I flick on my phone’s flashlight. Step forward. 

Lena’s voice is a blade. "My son has asthma." 

I tell her. "Then move." 

She doesn’t. "This shit causes neurological damage. Memory loss." 

I tell her "You want it clean, lady?" I say "Then stop scrolling your fucking Facebook and  Hire someone." and like that she stops.  

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

My head is throbbing already. I lift the light of my phone. The light beam shimmers off the  mold spores floating free.  

Veins pulse from a gash in the ceiling. The saturated plaster buckled under the weight. Bits  crumble into the tub below. 

I step inside. You don't have to be a city inspector to spell it out. I shut it down, the tents in  parks double, overnight. Yeah, it's bad but they walk soft near me. The scorpion in the  shoe closet. The black widow in the bassinet.  

The floor sticks to the bottom of my Berluti oxford leather dress shoe. I poke a roll of  bloated toilet paper with my shoe.  

I try to keep moving. If I stop and look too long the room stares back at me. Click. I take a photo. Task completed. 

"This place is fucking disgusting," I mutter.  

Lena scrolls. "Mold triggers asthma." 

I wave a hand. "Call Palisades." 

Caleb, steady. "We have."

Vince, still scrolling. 

Lena presses. "The Fire Marshal said—" 

I cut her off. "How many times has he been here? Five?"  

They come. They write reports. The ones that still care do, at least. Threats always fizzle. I  make sure of it. I press past Caleb in the door way and out into the rain. 

Caleb exhales slow. "What about renovations?" 

I tell him "Look, there are no renovations." then I say "Aren't you maintenance? Don't you  have a god damn hammer and nails?" That shuts him up.  

I move back toward the trunk of my Porsche 911 Carrera GTS. I look at my reflection in the  car's gloss finish, then back at Caleb.  

The trunk pops. I pull out garbage bag. Heavy duty black. A snap. 

Soft thuds—both shoes dropping inside. 

Tied tight. Knotted. 

Dropped in the dumpster. 

Lena’s voice cuts through. "This place is supposed to be fixed." 

I step into my car in socks and I say "Call maintenance."  

Slam.  

The Porsche growls to life. Even in socks, I don't feel it in the pedal. 

Tasha doesn’t look up. Just keeps scrolling. 

The rain taps against the windshield, steady, rhythmic, like a reminder. 

I pull away from the lot. The rearview mirror catches Caleb and Lena still standing there,  watching, hands shoved in his hoodie.

I turn left on to Mercy. And the concave of the seat hugs me around the corner. Tasha shifts, adjusting her coat. "You should sell it." 

"The Porsche?" I say, stunned. 

"No, the fucking Motel, Gordon. I got a bad feeling about that place." Tasha puts down her  phone. "Gives me the creeps." 

I tell her, "I can't shut it down, Tash." I say "There's no buyers in this market." 

She exhales, picks her phone up, nails tapping against the glass screen. "Then burn it  down." 

A joke. I think. 

I merge onto the highway easy, precise. 

Tasha finally looks up, but not at me—out the window, at the rain streaking past. "It’s  embarrassing, Gordon." 

She doesn’t mean the Rosetta. She means me.