The presence was gone. Only the void remained—a vast, suffocating emptiness that pressed against Delvin's consciousness like cold hands around his throat. His awareness snapped back into his body like a whip cracking through air.
Then came the flood.
Information surged into him—into his mind, his blood, his very cells—a torrent so violent it felt like drowning in light. His spine arched. His fingers clawed at nothing. The data carved itself into him with unbearable speed, each fragment a white-hot needle threading through his neurons.
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He couldn't scream.
His heart slammed against his ribs—a frantic, animal rhythm. *Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud.* Too fast. Too hard. The sound filled his skull like thunder trapped in a cave, each beat shaking his vision, making his ears ring with metallic pressure.
The sensation was wrong. Tormenting. Unearthly. Each second stretched into ages, time warping around him as the frequency accelerated—rapid, overwhelming, impossible. It felt as if the universe itself was downloading into the fragile hard drive of his flesh.
Then—silence.
The flood ceased.
Delvin's eyes snapped open, desperate, wild, searching the darkness to prove he wasn't dead. His chest heaved. Sweat slicked his skin, cold and clammy. His limbs trembled like branches in a storm, drained of all strength, barely his own.
Without thought—only instinct—he dragged himself across the floor. His fingers scraped against rough wood, splinters biting into his palms. The distance to his bed felt infinite. When he finally collapsed onto the thin mattress, exhaustion pulled him under like a stone sinking into black water, merciless and absolute.
---
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
The sound dragged him from the depths. Familiar. Inevitable. Like fate knocking.
"Come in," he rasped, his voice a broken whisper, raw as sandpaper.
The door groaned open with that same mournful squeak it always made—metal scraping rust, a sound that set his teeth on edge. George entered, a burst of energy against Delvin's hollow fatigue, his cheerful presence almost painful in its contrast.
"G-get up, Delvin. It's ti-time to go."
Delvin blinked at him through heavy lids, memory trickling back. Their agreement. The job hunt. He forced himself upright, muscles protesting, and went through the motions—checked his watch, smoothed wrinkled clothes with trembling hands, dragged a comb through his short dark hair, polished his scuffed shoes with the edge of his sleeve, laced them tight with fingers that still shook.
Two minutes. He could manage two minutes.
"George... let's go."
George's eyebrows lifted, impressed despite himself. "—Sure."
---
They slipped out of the room and descended the stairwell. Evening light filtered through grimy windows, painting the cracked walls in bruised gold and sickly amber. The air smelled of old cooking oil and damp concrete. Each step echoed—*tap, tap, tap*—counting down to something Delvin couldn't name.
At the bottom, the last man Delvin wanted to see was waiting.
Roger's Blade.
Delvin's heart stuttered, then kicked into a gallop. *Thud-thud-thud-thud.* His eyes darted—searching for an escape, a side door, a hole in the universe. Nothing. No miracle. No way out.
Roger's eyes glimmered with cold satisfaction. Keys dangled from his thick fingers, and he jingled them slowly, deliberately. Each metallic *clink* echoed through the stairwell like a warning bell, like chains dragging across stone.
"You promised you would pay me today," Blade boomed, his voice filling every corner of the narrow space, reverberating off the walls. "I am here to collect what is mine."
Doors cracked open on every floor. Tenants leaned out, eyes hungry for drama, whispers hissing like steam from a kettle. The stairwell became a coliseum, and Delvin stood at its center.
---
Roger's Blade had mocking, theatrical, arms spreading wide.
"Ah, Delvin! The man of promises! The engineer of excuses! Three months—no rent. Ninety nights of lies. And now you stroll down my stairs as if the world owes you a parade!"
His bald head gleamed under the weak yellow light. He rubbed it slowly, almost lovingly, grinning—but his eyes were sharp as knives, cutting into Delvin with every glance. The crowd murmured, restless, feeding on the confrontation.
---
Delvin tried to be steady, deliberate, every word a stone.
"I said I'll pay. I will. Soon."
He didn't look at Blade—only at his watch, as if time itself could shield him from those predatory eyes. The silence after his words stretched taut, making the crowd lean closer, holding their breath.
---
Roger's Blade broke out laughing too loud, the sound bouncing off the walls.
"Soon! *Soon* is the anthem of the broke! Promises don't pay rent, boy. Promises don't buy bread. Promises don't fatten my pockets!"
He jingled his keys again—*clink, clink, clink*—each sound like a gavel striking. Like a death knell. The tenants shifted, some with pity in their eyes, others smirking at Delvin's public humiliation.
---
Delvin's jaw became tight, knuckles white on the railing, feeling the cold metal bite into his palm.
"You'll get your money. Not today. But you will."
His calm tone was a mask over the storm raging inside. The crowd sensed it—the tension of a man cornered, refusing to bow, refusing to break.
---
Roger's Blade leaned close, close enough that Delvin could smell tobacco and coffee on his breath.
"You're handsome, disciplined, you talk like you own the world. But you're *empty*, Delvin. Empty pockets, empty promises. And emptiness has no place in my apartments. Pay, or pack. That's the law of Blade."
The word *pack* struck him like a physical blow. His chest tightened, ribs compressing around his lungs. His heart hammered—*thud-thud-thud-thud*—so hard he thought his chest might split open.
"I-I'm on my way to find a job," Delvin stammered, hating the weakness in his voice, eyes flicking to his watch as if it could somehow rescue him.
Blade shook his head slowly, caressing his bald scalp like a ritual, like a priest blessing a sacrifice.
"Delvin, I'm not having any more of your fake promises. Just pack up and leave."
Murmurs rippled through the stairwell like wind through dry leaves. The tenants whispered, their voices layering over each other, a dozen judgments passed in hushed tones.
Delvin's pulse surged, blood roaring in his ears. Three months' rent—four hundred and fifty coins—impossible. He glanced at George, searching for assurance, but his friend's silence was heavy as iron.
Then, something shifted inside him. Desperation sharpened into calculation.
"Sir," Delvin's voice cracked, then steadied, desperation bleeding through every syllable. "Think. If I leave tonight, you lose four hundred and fifty coins—*and* your room sits empty. Give me two days, and I'll return with payment. With interest. Which loss weighs heavier?"
The stairwell held its breath. Every eye fixed on Blade.
Time stretched. A heartbeat. Two. Three.
Blade's eyes narrowed, calculating. Then he raised his keys like a gavel, like a judge pronouncing a sentence.
"You all heard him. *Two days.*"
---
They stepped into the street, and Delvin's lungs finally expanded, sucking in cool evening air that tasted of exhaust and dust and freedom.
Then—a voice shattered the fragile peace.
"Delvin, you loser! Why aren't you dead yet? You're wasting Earth's last water and food! I can't wait to spit on your corpse! Ha ha! Brainless filth!"
Heat flooded Delvin's veins like poison. Fury surged through him, white-hot and blinding. His heart thundered—*THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD*—face flushing hot, fists clenching until his nails bit into his palms. Violent fantasies clawed at his mind—Peter, third floor, room four, his smug face twisted in pain—
A hysterical chuckle escaped his throat, alien and wrong.
George's hand clamped down on his shoulder, solid and grounding, pulling him back from the edge.
"D-don't mind him. Le-let's keep up the p-pace. W-we have a long D-distance to cover."
Delvin nodded, jaw locked tight, and forced his feet to move forward. One step. Then another.
But inside, the storm still raged.
And the clock was ticking.
Two days.