Tina woke before the cheap alarm on her burner phone could screech, the motel room still dark except for the thin stripe of streetlight sneaking through the blinds. She lay there for a minute, listening to the city outside: distant horns, the low growl of early delivery trucks, the occasional siren that never quite reached full panic. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. She almost believed them.
She dragged herself up, showered in water that never quite got hot, and pulled on the same black tee she'd worn yesterday. The note from Victor still sat on the nightstand, smoothed flat, edges curling like it was trying to escape. She hadn't thrown it away. She told herself it was evidence. She told herself she might need to show it to someone someday. She didn't admit the real reason: part of her wanted to keep the proof that he'd been here, that the chase was real.
Work started at seven. She arrived early, hoodie up, breath fogging in the January air. Rico was already on the dock, barking orders at a forklift driver who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. He tossed her a pair of work gloves without looking.
"Same as yesterday. Pallets in the back need sorting. Don't mix the printer paper with the copy paper. Boss gets pissy about that."
She nodded, pulled on the gloves, and got to work. The rhythm came back fast: lift, stack, shift, repeat. Muscles remembered even if her mind wanted to forget everything else. By ten she'd earned her first twenty of the day and a grudging "not bad" from Rico.
Lunch break found her on the same stack of empty pallets, eating the same peanut butter sandwich, watching the same chain-link fence across the street. Empty today. No sunglasses. No dark jacket. She told herself she was relieved.
Then her phone buzzed—the burner, the one nobody had the number for except the temp agency she'd called yesterday just in case.
Unknown number.
She stared at the screen like it might bite. Swiped to answer.
"Tina." Victor's voice, calm, amused, like he was calling to ask about the weather.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. "How did you get this number?"
"I have my ways."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting." A pause, soft chuckle. "How's the warehouse treating you?"
She glanced around instinctively. Nobody close. "Fine. Why are you calling?"
"Because your rent is due tomorrow. And you're short."
Her stomach dropped. She'd counted the cash last night—three hundred twenty-one dollars. The motel wanted two hundred up front for the next week. She'd planned to stretch it, maybe find a cheaper place. But she hadn't expected him to know the exact amount.
"You're bluffing."
"I never bluff about money." Another pause. "The clerk at the front desk is very chatty when someone slips him a hundred for information. Your room is paid through tonight. After that… well, you'll be sleeping in the bus station unless you want to come home."
"I'm not coming home."
"Then accept the favor."
"I don't want your money."
"It's already done." His voice softened, almost gentle. "Check your door when you get back. Envelope. Cash. Enough for two weeks. No strings."
"There are always strings with you."
"Only the ones you choose to pull."
She closed her eyes, fingers tight around the phone. "Stop this. Just… stop."
"I will," he said quietly. "The second you tell me you never want to see me again. Say it, Tina. Say the words and I'll disappear. No notes. No calls. No shadows. You'll never hear from me."
The words sat on her tongue, heavy and ready.
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
The silence stretched, thick with everything she wouldn't admit.
Victor sighed, the sound almost fond. "That's what I thought."
He ended the call.
Tina stared at the blank screen for a long minute, then shoved the phone into her pocket like it burned.
The rest of the shift passed in a blur. She lifted boxes harder than necessary, stacked them higher, anything to drown out the echo of his voice. When Rico handed her the day's pay she pocketed it without counting, already knowing it wouldn't be enough.
Back at the motel the envelope waited, slid under the door like before. Thick. White. No name.
Inside: eight hundred dollars in crisp twenties, plus a single folded note on the same cream cardstock.
**"Breathe easier tonight. You've earned it. —V"**
She sat on the bed, money spread across the comforter like dirty confetti, and felt the cage tighten another inch.
Not steel bars.
Just kindness.
The cruelest kind.
Because kindness from Victor Kane came with interest, and she already owed more than she could ever repay.
She stared at the cash until her eyes burned, then swept it into her backpack.
Tomorrow she'd move again. Somewhere smaller. Somewhere cheaper. Somewhere he couldn't find so easily.
She told herself she could still outrun him.
She told herself the flutter in her chest when she read his note was only anger.
She almost believed it.