Tina woke to the smell of rain-soaked asphalt drifting through the cracked window and the faint buzz of her burner phone vibrating against the bare floorboards. She reached for it blindly, eyes still heavy with sleep, and squinted at the screen. A text from an unknown number, no greeting, just coordinates and a time: **10:00 a.m. Front gate. Warehouse on Delaware Ave. Ask for Marco. Good money. Cash. —A friend.**
She sat up so fast the mattress slid sideways. The fox pendant swung forward, cold against her skin for a split second before warming to her body heat. She stared at the message until the screen dimmed, then deleted it. No reply. No acknowledgment. But the seed was planted, and she hated how quickly it took root.
She dressed in layers—black tee, hoodie, the jeans that were starting to feel like a second skin—and left the apartment at nine-thirty. The walk took her past the old storage lot where she still worked for Rico, but she kept going, following the map in her head until she reached the address: a larger warehouse complex, newer brick, chain-link fence topped with razor wire that looked more decorative than threatening. A guard shack at the gate. A man in a navy windbreaker waved her through without asking questions.
Inside, the air was cooler, cleaner, smelling of fresh concrete and machine oil instead of printer paper dust. Forklifts hummed in the distance. Workers moved with purpose, not the half-asleep shuffle of her current gig. She found Marco near the loading docks—a short, broad-shouldered guy with a clipboard and a cigarette dangling from his lip even though smoking was clearly banned.
"You Tina?" he asked, eyeing her up and down like he was checking inventory.
"Yeah."
"Friend of a friend, huh?" He smirked, but there was no malice in it. "Start today. Fifteen an hour, cash at end of shift. Inventory and light lifting. No questions. No paperwork. You good with that?"
Tina's mouth went dry. Fifteen an hour was almost double what Rico paid. Cash. No trail. It was perfect. Too perfect.
"Who's the friend?" she asked, voice steady even though her pulse wasn't.
Marco shrugged. "Guy who owns half the waterfront properties around here. Doesn't like his name thrown around. You want the job or not?"
She thought of the eight hundred still untouched in her bag. The wilted rose on her windowsill. The necklace she hadn't taken off since it arrived. She thought of how fast the money would run out if she kept scraping by on eighty-dollar days.
"I want it," she said.
Marco nodded once. "Clock starts now. Lunch at one. Don't be late."
The work was harder than at Rico's—bigger pallets, tighter deadlines, heavier boxes of industrial parts instead of office supplies—but the rhythm felt sharper, more alive. She lifted, stacked, scanned barcodes with a handheld device they handed her without explanation. The crew was quieter, more focused. No small talk. No questions about where she came from. Just work.
By lunch she'd earned thirty dollars in her mind and a quiet respect from the guys who noticed she didn't complain or slow down. She sat on a stack of crates outside, eating the peanut butter sandwich she'd packed, watching the river glitter under weak winter sun. The fox pendant caught the light and flashed silver. She touched it absently, then dropped her hand when she realized what she was doing.
A shadow fell across her.
She looked up.
Marco stood there, arms crossed, cigarette finally gone. "Boss wants to see you. Upstairs office. Now."
Her stomach twisted. "Which boss?"
Marco just jerked his thumb toward the metal stairs leading to a second-floor catwalk. "You'll know when you see him."
She climbed the stairs slowly, boots clanging on each step like warning bells. The office door was open. Inside: a desk, a window overlooking the docks, and Victor Kane leaning against the glass with his arms folded, sleeves rolled to the elbows, looking like he'd been waiting all morning.
"You," she breathed.
"Me." He pushed off the window and gestured to the chair opposite the desk. "Sit."
She stayed standing. "This is your warehouse."
"One of them." He smiled, small and unapologetic. "Marco's a good foreman. Pays on time. Doesn't ask stupid questions. Figured you'd appreciate that."
"You set this up."
"I offered an opportunity." He stepped closer, voice dropping. "You took it. That's your choice."
Tina's laugh came out shaky. "You don't give choices, Victor. You give traps that look like choices."
"Maybe." He studied her face, eyes tracing the line of her jaw, the stubborn set of her mouth. "But you're here. Earning real money. Sleeping in a place that doesn't smell like despair. You're breathing easier today than you were yesterday. Admit it."
She wanted to deny it. Couldn't. The truth burned too bright.
"Why?" she asked instead. "Why not just drag me back?"
"Because I want you to walk through the door yourself." He reached out, slow, and brushed his thumb across the fox pendant at her throat. The touch was light, almost reverent. "And you're still wearing this."
Her breath caught. She didn't pull away.
"It's just jewelry," she whispered.
"It's a reminder," he corrected softly. "That you're not alone in this city. That someone sees you. Really sees you."
She swallowed. "I don't need to be seen."
"You do." His thumb lingered one second longer, then fell away. "Everyone does."
Silence wrapped around them, thick and charged. Outside, forklifts beeped. Workers shouted. Life moved on without them.
Tina stepped back first. "I'm keeping the job. But that doesn't mean anything."
"I know."
"I'm still running."
"I know that too."
She turned toward the door, paused with her hand on the frame. "Don't think this makes us even."
His voice followed her, low and amused. "We're nowhere near even, Tina."
She walked out without looking back, the pendant warm against her skin, the weight of his gaze following her down the catwalk and into the warehouse floor.
Fifteen dollars an hour.
Cash.
A boss who didn't ask questions.
And a man who owned the whole damn building, waiting patiently for the day she stopped pretending she could outrun him forever.
She went back to work.
Lifted heavier boxes.
Moved faster.
Told herself it was independence.
Told herself the flutter in her chest when she thought of his thumb on the necklace was only anger.
She almost believed it.
Almost.