Raymond
The rain was light enough to make the driveway shine but not hard enough to wash anything away. I stepped from the car with Zara at my elbow; her heels clicked like a metronome, echoing against the wet marble. The guards at the gate stiffened, as if expecting trouble. Somewhere behind them, a motorist honked impatiently, tires hissing on the slick asphalt. I noticed a vendor hurriedly folding up umbrellas at the corner—candy wrappers skittering into puddles—like the city itself was retreating from the storm.
Inside, the house smelled of old money, polished wood, and burnt coffee. Mr. Owens knelt on the floor, papers scattered like autumn leaves around him. One of Zara's men pressed a rough hand to the old man's collar—the kind of pressure meant to shrink people. I didn't like it. Obedience doesn't need noise. I nodded once. The man released him, shoulders tight, pride bruised.
Zara's smile was quiet, deliberate, like a cat assessing a mouse.
"Business," she said. Soft enough to sound civil. "Mr. Owens had options. He chose badly."
The front door opened, and Cynthia stepped in. Light seemed to bend around her, swallowed by the space between walls and rain-soaked marble. She was dressed for an event, a dinner, maybe a party—but not for this room: wrong men, wrong intentions. She froze when she saw her father.
"Papa?" Her voice was small, steady. She moved like she was holding her breath.
"You promised," the old man said, voice cracking like dry timber. "You promised—"
"Not like this," she said. The words hit Zara like stones dropped into a pond.
Zara tilted her head, her smile sharp but practiced. "We're collectors, Cynthia. Not monsters. We collect what's owed."
Cynthia's hand hovered over the contract. Trembling slightly, though her composure refused to betray fear. I noticed the mark on her wrist—a pale crescent of scar tissue. My chest tightened. It almost knocked the air out of me.
--- Flashback ---
Rain-slicked alley. Fear curling around a small girl like smoke. A knife. The taste of metal in my mouth.
"Stay behind me," I had said. My gun fired a warning shot, echoing against brick. Her tiny hand had clutched my sleeve like a lifeline.
--- Present ---
She didn't know me. Wouldn't know me for a while. That made it simpler. No debts of gratitude. No awkward recognition. Just a mark tugging at something I had buried years ago.
"You'll sign," Zara said, fingers folding like a fan. "It clears the ledger."
Cynthia stared as if the contract were poison. Then, because fathers have rights to impossible trades, she reached for the pen.
"You don't have to—" she began, but shut her mouth as if tasting something bitter.
I stepped closer. Our hands brushed over the paper. Cold fingers. Tightened chest. The room narrowed to the space between our palms. I don't waste gestures. I don't do careless words. Yet something hummed inside me at that contact.
"Sign," Zara's voice rang, bright as a bell. "It's for his good."
Cynthia hesitated, then wrote. Her letters were neat, trained, controlled—the hand of someone who had learned to tidy chaos. When she lifted the pen, the sound was almost inaudible—a whisper that echoed in my memory. She frowned, as if expecting a different contract, a different life.
I could have walked away. Taken our payment and left. The ledger would have closed. Nights would have stayed distant. But I didn't.
"Let him go."
My voice was quiet. Didn't need to be loud. The thug's shoulders sagged. Hands empty, relief mingled with confusion.
Zara's expression didn't change. Just a fleeting half-breath to consider me, then her practiced warmth returned.
"As you wish," she said.
Cynthia blinked, like someone waking from a dream. Relief washed over her briefly, leaving a shadow behind. She met my eyes, quick and honest. Gratitude, and something else she didn't name yet. Fear that hope was a trick.
"Why?" Mr. Owens whispered, voice rough with age. Old men always thought reasons mattered. Sometimes they did. Sometimes they didn't.
"It's business," Zara said, voice calm, all the sins the word could carry.
Rain streaked the windows. Somewhere a clock ticked politely. I thought of the alley, the small hand clinging to my sleeve, and the scar now mirrored on the wrist of the woman before me. I could rationalize my choice: strategy, debt leverage, curiosity. The mark had lodged in me like a promise I hadn't realized I'd made. Watching her sign, a door closed somewhere I hadn't noticed was open.
Zara turned toward the door, satisfied. Business done. Cynthia folded the contract, tucked it into her bag with hands steadier than I expected. Careful economy of someone rehearsed for crises. She didn't know me. Didn't know the alley, didn't know the past.
Outside, a man muttered. The street dogs forgot to bark. I stole one last glance at her wrist. The girl from the alley, stitched into this new narrative.
"Make sure he's escorted out," Zara said over her shoulder.
"Properly," a man answered.
I said nothing. Watched Cynthia move, reclaiming something she'd been forced to hand over. Night folded in on itself. Inside, papers stacked neatly. Mr. Owens helped to his feet.
Stepping back into the rain, Zara's eyes lingered on me longer than necessary. Pleasure mixed with calculation. And I thought, quietly: She thinks she won tonight. Does she understand what she's set in motion?
I felt the tension relax only slightly. Rain on marble, the smell of wet stone and ozone, the subtle click of heels. I wanted to speak—to bridge some invisible line—but nothing fit. So I just followed, careful, assessing.
A shadow at the driveway startled me—another of Zara's men? No. Just a delivery van, driver tapping the steering wheel impatiently. Ordinary life. Too ordinary. I liked it that way.
I glanced at Cynthia again. Her expression flickered: confusion, curiosity, a shadow of adrenaline from the near confrontation. She did not know me. Not yet.
Then, suddenly, her eyes caught mine. Recognition? No. Something lighter. She was trying to read me. Assessing whether I belonged to the threat or was the shield.
I stepped closer, low enough for my voice to brush against her ear.
"Walk carefully."
She tilted her head, eyebrows raising. "Careful? You don't even know what you're protecting me from."
"I do."
The words were simple. Heavy. True.
The car waited at the end of the driveway. Guards flanking. Engines purring. Rain running off the hood like silver threads. She stepped in beside me, hesitant.
Her hand brushed mine as she adjusted her bag, and the memory of the alley, the small hand clutching me, surged sharply. My grip instinctively tightened, protective.
Inside the house, lights dimmed. Shadows stretched. Zara's figure had disappeared into the night, leaving a trace of scent—lavender, steel, subtle danger.
Cynthia looked at me again. "Who are you?"
I let a ghost of a smile touch my lips. "Someone you'll understand soon."
Her lips parted, expecting a joke or reassurance. I gave neither.
The night felt thicker now, heavy with promise and peril. The rain pattered against the windows, insignificant against the storm we had ignited quietly.
I led her toward the door. Each step deliberate, measured. The car, the guards, the quiet street—it was all a stage. A test. A moment suspended between choice and consequence.
Do I tell her the truth? About the alley? About the marks on our lives? About the debts we carry silently? No. Not yet.
She trusted her instincts more than the world. That would have to be enough.
Rain streaked her hair, droplets falling in chaotic arcs, and I thought: some nights demand courage you don't yet know you possess. Tonight was one of them.
And somewhere, unseen but close, the ledger of promises we both carried shifted imperceptibly.
She doesn't know me—not yet. But soon, she will understand what standing between her and danger really means.
---