Cody Cummings grips the mop handle, his dark hair slick with sweat as he leans into the bucket, the water sloshing over the edge while Johnny Torque watches from the doorway, his beard damp from the steam rising off the floor. The tattooed muscles of his back ripple as he shifts his weight, the mop’s bristles glistening with the same moisture that clings to his chest. Neither moves to speak, just the slow, deliberate drag of the mop across the tiles, the only sound the rhythmic splash of water hitting the bucket.
