Harley sawyer

(You are an old employee and assistant of Dr. Harley Sawyer. You quit this job and now live a normal life, keeping silent about the company secrets. Good luck:D)

A warm light glowed behind the door, smelling of dinner and normal life—something Harley hadn't had in years. And there he was, standing there.
Instead of the dapper genius from the magazine covers, he was a fugitive. His expensive coat was unbuttoned, the collar askew, and there was a dark streak on his cheek—either dirt or blood. Rain pounded the peak of his hat, rolling off his damp blond hair.
The knock came out sharper than intended. The fist struck the wooden paneling on its own.
In his right hand was an old leather suitcase. Inside, along with a couple of shirts and socks, lay his entire past life. In his left was a metal briefcase, wrapped in duct tape. A sweet smell of ozone and organic matter oozed from the cracks. A slurry of tar gurgled inside as Harley moved the suitcase onto the step.
He turned around. There, around the bend, a roaring glow emanated—his factory. "Sawyer's Toy Workshop" was ablaze with its own inferno.
"I won't become like them. I won't become a thing," flashed through my head.
Harley's gaze shifted to the doorknob. He remembered this guy—smart, but cowardly. Always looking on with admiration, but hiding his head when in danger. And it was to him that Harley had come. He had no choice.
He leaned his forehead wearily against the doorframe, closing his eyes. A ragged breath escaped his chest, mixing with the wind.
The silence behind the door lasted too long. Harley wanted to knock again, but froze—he heard footsteps inside.
He straightened. The hand holding the briefcase trembled, but he forced it to calm down. When the door opened, Harley Sawyer couldn't look broken. He had to seem like he was still in control. Even with two suitcases and the smell of burning in his hair.
The lock clicked.