Alex hadn’t expected the boxes to be so heavy.
The first one nearly slipped from her grip as she hoisted it off the factory floor and staggered toward the truck. It felt like it was filled with bricks, not drugs—roughly packed, dense, unforgiving. Her arms trembled before she even reached the ramp, and by the second trip, her back was already screaming.
But she didn’t stop.
Sweat soaked through the rough fabric of the oversized shirt Marty had given her. It smelled like oil and smoke and something chemical. The pants scratched her skin with every movement. But Alex gritted her teeth and kept going.
She didn’t complain. She didn’t ask for water. She didn’t pause longer than ten seconds between rounds. She just kept lifting and carrying, lifting and carrying—watching the other workers with bloodshot eyes and hollow faces doing the same. This wasn’t some grand lesson in humility. It was punishment. A test.
And she was going to pass.
By noon, her hands were raw. By three, her knees had buckled once. By five, her breathing was ragged, and her throat tasted like dust and metal. But when Marty asked if she wanted to stop for the day, she only wiped her face with the back of her arm and reached for another box.
She didn’t want David’s approval. She wanted his allegiance.
She wanted the Hales to burn.
She wanted Zade to see her with blood on her palms and regret ever thinking she was just some pampered Steel heiress playing pretend.
That thought—his smug, condescending face—fueled her. When her legs felt like jelly and her spine screamed, she pictured him smiling like he owned her, like he was always two steps ahead, like nothing she did would ever matter.
And then she lifted another box.
When the sun set behind the sand-dusted windows of the factory, and the trucks were finally empty, Alex collapsed onto a piece of discarded tarp in the corner. Her body throbbed. Her fingers cramped. She had never been this exhausted. But she didn’t cry. She didn’t even whimper.
She just curled up in a ball, hugged her knees, and closed her eyes.
Sleep came in short bursts, broken by coughing workers, distant sirens, and the metallic creak of the factory's rusted doors. Her back ached. Her shoulders burned. Her stomach growled, but there was nothing to eat.
When morning came, Marty stood above her with a crumpled plastic bowl of cereal.
“Eat,” he said flatly.
Alex sat up and took it with trembling fingers. The cereal was soggy and tasted like flavored cardboard. She devoured it anyway.
Today would be worse.
***
She changed in silence. Marty tossed a clean suit onto the tarp — well, cleaner than yesterday’s outfit. It was a fitted black suit with a thin tie and a stiff white shirt. Alex dressed quickly, tying her hair back with a spare rubber band, and slipped on cheap black shoes that pinched her toes.
He handed her a wristwatch. “Don’t lose track of time.”
Then he handed her a bag.
Alex glanced inside—and froze.
Bags. Dozens of them. Tiny plastic bags, filled with powder and pills.
“No,” she whispered. “You want me to—”
“You’re a dealer today,” Marty said. “Don’t ask questions. You’ll be alone. Sell smart. Don’t get caught. We’ll pick you up tonight.”
He drove her in silence.
They stopped in the middle of town, in an alley shadowed by taller buildings, where the sunlight barely reached. Alex stepped out with the bag in her hands and the weight of what she was about to do pressing down on her chest like iron.
Marty didn't wait. The car rolled away, leaving her alone with the stench of the city and the voice in her head screaming don’t do this.
She sat down against a wall. Time passed slowly, marked by the ticking of the watch and the occasional footsteps of strangers.
People passed by—businessmen, students, old couples. A mother pushing a stroller. A boy in school uniform. A girl about her age laughing with her friends.
All potential customers. All potential reasons to give up.
Alex’s hands trembled. Her mind kept flashing to her father’s face. To Nova, lying weak in bed. To Michael’s betrayal. To Brenda’s silence. To Zade.
Zade, who had destroyed everything. Who had pretended to care, then clawed into her life like a parasite. The man who said, this time, it’s not me, like she was supposed to believe him. Like he wasn’t behind every crack in her life.
She thought of his voice, soft and sharp. Of the way he smiled when he lied. Of the blood she wanted on her hands.
Alex swallowed hard. She stayed there for hours. Noon passed. Then two. Then five.
No sales. No courage.
Then, at nine, he came.
A boy. Seventeen at most. Skinny. Hooded sweatshirt. Shifty eyes. He walked straight up to her like he’d done it a hundred times before.
“You selling?” he asked.
Alex froze. Her fingers clenched around the strap of her bag.
He held out a few bills, licking his dry lips. “Come on. Just a little. Same as before.”
Same as before?
Her breath caught. He was a regular.
He had a dealer. Someone who probably stood in this very alley. Someone who gave him the hit he wanted, maybe needed. His pupils were already blown. His voice was desperate.
Alex stared at the money.
And then she saw his face clearly.
So young. Too young. He had acne scars and nervous fingers. A scar on his jaw. Dirt under his fingernails. A life spiraling somewhere Alex had never dared to imagine.
She looked into her bag.
She could end this now. Hand him the bag. Take the cash. Prove to David she was ruthless.
But something in her stomach twisted.
Alex slowly closed the zipper of the bag.
“I’m out,” she said softly.
The boy blinked. “What?”
“I’m out,” she repeated, louder this time. “Come back tomorrow.”
He stared at her, confused and frustrated. Then he turned and stumbled back into the shadows.
Alex exhaled. Her heart was racing. She leaned her head back against the wall, staring up at the dark sky above the alley.
She had failed. But she hadn’t sold a soul for a favor.
When Marty arrived twenty minutes later, he didn’t speak. He took the bag, checked it, then looked at her with unreadable eyes.
Not one pack missing.
Alex got into the car, silent.
She knew what this meant.
David wouldn’t help her.