Numbers blur. Columns collapse into each other until the spreadsheet looks like static.
Whitney’s voice cuts through it. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m typing.”
“You’re shaking while typing.” She leans against my desk, that smug tilt to her mouth. “Hangover?”
“Lack of patience,” I mutter.
“Careful. That almost sounded like a spine.”
Before I can answer, James passes behind her. Whitney straightens instantly.
“Mr. Bloxham—”
He doesn’t stop. Just glances at me, at my hands trembling over the keyboard, then keeps walking. The brief flick of his gaze burns worse than Whitney’s barbs.
Five minutes later, my desk phone rings.
“Theresa,” his voice says, low, even. “My office. Now, please.”
Whitney’s smirk flickers; she thinks I’m in trouble. Maybe I am.
When I step inside, he’s by the window, sleeves rolled, city light sliding along the glass.
“You handled that well,” he says without turning.
“What?”
“Whitney.” He faces me then, expression unreadable. “You didn’t fold. Most people do when she starts circling.”
“I was just tired.”
“Of her?”
“Of everything.”
He smiles, faint but real. “That’s usually when people start telling the truth.
I don’t know how to answer. His approval feels heavier than reprimand.
“She’s good at her job,” I manage.
“So are you.” He sits, gestures to the chair opposite. “But you let people forget it.”
“That’s how they prefer me.”
“That’s not how I prefer you.”
The sentence lands too softly to be professional. I stare at him, unsure whether to thank him or run. He looks away first, a small mercy.
“Get some coffee,” he says. “Then go home on time for once.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Theresa,” he adds as I turn to leave, “don’t let people like Whitney decide who you are. They’ll always set the price too low.”
By morning, my nerves feel raw.
I grab coffee from the corner shop before heading out. The barista asks if I want my usual, but her voice sounds warped, distant. The smell of espresso makes my stomach turn.
The streets are almost empty. Rain left everything slick and shining. My heels click too loud. I keep imagining footsteps behind me, but each time I turn, it’s only the echo of my own.
Paranoia. You’re safe. You’re fine.
Still, I keep checking. When I reach my building, my hands shake as I fit the key into the lock. I tell myself I’m being ridiculous.
Inside, I drop my bag, peel off my coat, and turn toward the living room. The apartment feels wrong. Off. Did I forget to lock the deadbolt this morning? Stupid, careless—
A man is sitting in my armchair.
For a second, my brain refuses to make sense of him. He’s youngish, maybe mid-thirties, short dark hair, tattoos winding up both arms. A black shirt, sleeves rolled, no jacket, no attempt to look like he belongs.
He doesn’t stand. He just looks at me.
“Miss Knight.”
My throat tightens. “Who are you?”
“You know who I work for.” His voice is calm, the kind of calm that means danger. “Your brother’s debt. Five days, wasn’t it?”
“Three now,” I say before I can stop myself.
He nods once, approving the correction. “Then you know why I’m here.”
“I told you I’d pay.”
“You said you would.” He studies me like he’s cataloguing weaknesses. “Words are cheap. Time isn’t.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Work faster.”
“I don’t have—”
He raises a hand. “Don’t lie. You’ve been looking. I can smell desperation from blocks away.”
Something in the phrasing chills me. “What do you want from me right now?”
“Nothing. Yet.” He stands, unhurried. Even in motion he feels wrong—balanced like a fighter who doesn’t need to prove it. “Consider this a courtesy call.”
“I don’t need courtesy. I need time.”
He steps closer. Not enough to touch, just enough to force the air out of the room. “Time’s a luxury. You’re out of luxuries.”
The smell of his cologne—cheap smoke and mint—mixes with something metallic underneath.
My voice comes out thin. “If you hurt him again—”
He tilts his head. “You’ll what?”
Silence answers for me. He smiles without humor. “That’s what I thought.”
He moves toward the door. “You’ve got one more chance, Miss Knight. Then I stop talking.”
When the door clicks shut behind him, the apartment exhales. I don’t.
For a long moment I stand there, heart racing so fast it feels like it could split me open.
You should run. Call someone. Anyone.
Instead I lock the door, every bolt, every chain. Then I slide to the floor and press my palms to my eyes until the world narrows to dark.
The fear tastes like copper.
I try calling Alan, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. My voice cracks halfway through the message, so I hang up. The silence afterward sounds like an accusation.
Minutes—or hours—later, I force myself up. The kitchen. Water. Something normal.
I flip on the light.
Something waits on the counter.
A small plastic bag. Inside, a lock of light brown hair tied with a rubber band.
Alan’s.
The sight knocks the air out of me. I grip the counter to stay upright.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
Tears hit the laminate. My body shakes before my mind does, grief and fury colliding until they’re the same thing.
They were in his room. They touched him.
They touched me, by proxy.
My knees give out. For a moment, I let it happen. I let the sobs tear through me, soundless, vicious.
Then—quiet. A new quiet.
Something solid forms underneath the panic, a weight made of anger. I stand. Wipe my face with the back of my hand.
The bag sits there, obscene in its simplicity. Proof that they can reach anyone I love.
I pick it up, drop it in the trash, and whisper, “Not again.”
My reflection in the dark window looks like someone else. Someone who’s done being afraid.
There’s no choice anymore. No line left uncrossed.
On the table, my laptop’s screen glows. The Virtue Exchange tab is open, waiting. No new notifications. Not yet.
I sink into the chair and watch the cursor blink, pulse for pulse with my heartbeat. The panic burns out, leaving something harder behind—resolve, or maybe just exhaustion that’s learned how to stand upright.
They’ll pay. Someone will pay. And when they do, Alan lives.
The clock on the wall ticks toward 12 am. All I can do now is wait.