The interior of the house was exactly what Brandon expected from the exterior—expensive, immaculate, and cold. Marble floors gleamed under soft lighting. Abstract art hung on walls that probably cost more than his annual salary. Everything screamed wealth, from the crystal chandelier overhead to the leather furniture arranged with geometric precision.
The woman led him into the living room, her silk robe whispering against her skin with every step. She moved with the confidence of someone who had never been told no in her life.
"Would you like a drink?" She gestured toward a bar cart stocked with bottles that probably cost more than Brandon's motel room.
"No. Thank you."
"Suit yourself." She poured herself something amber and expensive, taking a slow sip while studying him over the rim of the glass. "You seem nervous."
"I don't know why I'm here."
"Don't you?" Her lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I thought they explained the arrangement."
"Nobody explained anything to me."
The woman set down her glass, her expression shifting from seductive to annoyed. "I paid good money for this service. Very good money. And I expect to get what I paid for."
Brandon shook his head. "I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding. I'm not—"
"You're exactly what I ordered." She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something floral and expensive. "Tall. Decent looking. A little rough around the edges. The agency said you were new, but they assured me you'd perform adequately."
"Agency?"
"Don't play dumb. It's not attractive." Her hand came up to rest on his chest, fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt. "I've had a very long week, and I've been looking forward to this. So either you do what you came here to do, or I make a call and get my refund. And I suspect the people who sent you won't be happy about that."
Brandon's mind raced. The texter had set him up as some kind of escort. Sold his services to this woman without his knowledge or consent. And now he was trapped—refuse and face whatever consequences the texter decided to impose, or comply and lose another piece of himself.
The woman must have seen the conflict in his eyes. Her expression softened slightly, though it didn't quite reach sympathy.
"First time jitters? That's almost sweet." She took his hand and placed it on her hip. "Don't worry. I'll guide you through it. Just do what I say and we'll both have a good time."
"I can't do this."
"You can. And you will." Her voice hardened. "Because if you walk out that door, I promise you'll regret it. I know the people who run your little operation, and they don't take kindly to employees who don't deliver."
Brandon thought about the video. The footage of him at the warehouse. The bomb he'd delivered and the twenty people who had died because of it.
He thought about his mother in her hospital bed, waiting for treatment he couldn't afford.
He thought about Lily, about the future he was supposed to be building for her, about all the ways he'd already failed.
And then he stopped thinking.
His hands moved to his shirt buttons, undoing them one by one. The woman watched with approval, her earlier irritation fading back into anticipation.
"There we go," she murmured. "That's better."
---
What followed was mechanical at first.
Brandon moved through the motions like an automaton, his body responding while his mind retreated to somewhere far away. The woman directed him with words and touches, patient but demanding, and he followed her lead because there was nothing else to do.
But somewhere along the way, something shifted.
Maybe it was the alcohol she pressed into his hand between rounds. Maybe it was the sheer physical release after weeks of tension and fear. Maybe it was the way she looked at him—not with love or affection, but with naked desire, like he was something worth wanting.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, Brandon felt desired.
The guilt didn't disappear entirely, but it faded to a distant murmur, drowned out by sensation and sweat and the sounds they made together in the darkness. He stopped thinking about Julia. Stopped thinking about Derek. Stopped thinking about all the ways he'd failed and all the people he'd disappointed.
For a few hours, he was just a body. Just flesh and nerve endings and the simple animal pleasure of skin against skin.
When it was finally over, Brandon lay on silk sheets that probably cost more than his car had been worth, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling while the woman dozed beside him.
He felt empty.
But also, somehow, lighter.
---
Morning light filtered through heavy curtains, painting the bedroom in shades of gold.
Brandon woke slowly, disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. The bed was too soft. The sheets were too smooth. Everything smelled like expensive perfume and something else he didn't want to name.
The woman was already up.
She stood by the window, her back to him, dressed in a tailored black suit that transformed her from seductress to executive in the space of a breath. Her hair was pinned up in a severe bun, and when she turned to look at him, her eyes held none of the warmth from the night before.
"You're awake. Good."
Brandon sat up, pulling the sheet around his waist. "What time is it?"
"Seven. I have a meeting at eight." She crossed to the dresser and picked up a small envelope, tossing it onto the bed beside him. "Your clothes are in the bathroom. Get dressed and let yourself out. The front door locks automatically."
"That's it?"
"What did you expect? Breakfast in bed?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You did your job adequately. I got what I paid for. Now it's time for you to go."
Brandon looked at the envelope. He didn't open it.
"I don't want your money."
"It's not my money. It's already been paid to your handlers. That's just a tip." She picked up a briefcase from beside the door. "For what it's worth, you weren't bad. A little hesitant at first, but you warmed up. If you're still in the business in a few months, maybe I'll request you again."
She left without saying goodbye.
Brandon sat in the empty bedroom, surrounded by luxury he hadn't earned and couldn't afford, and felt something inside him crack.
What have I become?
He got dressed slowly, avoiding his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The envelope on the bed contained five hundred dollars in crisp bills. He shoved them in his pocket without counting.
His phone buzzed as he walked out the front door.
DEPOSIT: $2,500.00
FROM: UNKNOWN SENDER
REFERENCE: SERVICE RENDERED
Twenty-five hundred dollars for one night.
Brandon wanted to throw the phone into the street. Wanted to scream at the faceless texter who had turned him into a prostitute. Wanted to burn down the beautiful house behind him and everything it represented.
Instead, he started walking toward the hospital.
---
The billing office at St. Michael's was a small, windowless room tucked away in the basement of the main building. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Brandon approached the counter, where a tired-looking woman with graying hair looked up from her computer.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm here to pay a bill. For Margaret Parker. Room 412."
The woman typed something into her computer, frowning at the screen. "Are you a family member?"
"Her son."
"I'll need to see some identification."
Brandon handed over his driver's license and waited while she verified his information. After a moment, she nodded and pulled up the account.
"The current outstanding balance is eleven thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars. How much would you like to pay today?"
Brandon did the math in his head. He had roughly three thousand from the texter's various payments, plus another few hundred from his shifts at Burger Barn. Minus the cost of motel rooms and food, he had maybe twenty-eight hundred left.
"I want to pay toward the new treatment. The two thousand dollar procedure."
"Let me check on that." More typing. More frowning. "I'm showing the procedure cost has been updated. With additional testing and medication, the current estimate is three thousand dollars."
Brandon's stomach dropped. "Three thousand? The doctor said two."
"Medical costs can change based on the patient's condition. According to these notes, your mother required additional bloodwork and an adjustment to her medication regimen. The new total reflects those changes."
"But I don't have three thousand. I have..." He counted quickly. "I have about two thousand I can pay right now."
The woman's expression softened slightly. "Every payment helps, Mr. Parker. Would you like to apply the two thousand to the procedure and set up a payment plan for the remainder?"
Brandon nodded numbly. He handed over his debit card and watched as two thousand dollars disappeared from his account.
"Your remaining balance after this payment will be twelve thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars," the woman said. "We can set up monthly payments of—"
"I'll figure it out."
He took his receipt and walked away before she could say anything else.
Twelve thousand dollars. Plus the fifty thousand he owed to Castellano. Plus the mortgage payments. Plus everything else.
The numbers swam in his head, impossible and infinite.
---
Work was a blur.
Brandon moved through his shift at Burger Barn on autopilot, flipping patties and filling orders without conscious thought. Tony yelled at him twice. Maria gave him a warning about his attitude. He barely noticed.
What he did notice was Elena.
She arrived for her shift twenty minutes late, her eyes red-rimmed and her movements jerky. She took her place at the register without greeting anyone, her jaw tight and her hands trembling slightly as she punched in orders.
Brandon watched her throughout the morning rush, growing more concerned with each passing hour. She dropped a tray of cups. Gave wrong change to three different customers. Snapped at Marcus when he asked if she was okay.
By the time the lunch rush died down, she looked like she was about to shatter.
Brandon found her during break, sitting on an overturned milk crate behind the dumpsters. Her face was buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"Elena."
Her head snapped up, eyes blazing. "Go away."
"Something's wrong. Talk to me."
"I said go away, Brandon. I don't need your help."
He didn't move. "You've been crying all morning. You're not okay. Let me—"
"Let you what?" She stood abruptly, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "Let you fix my problems? You can't even fix your own. Just leave me alone."
"I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on."
"Why do you care?" Her voice cracked. "You don't know me. You don't owe me anything. Why can't you just mind your own business like everyone else?"
"Because I've seen that look before." Brandon stepped closer, his voice softening. "I've seen it in the mirror. That's the look of someone who's run out of options. Someone who's trapped and doesn't know how to get out."
Elena stared at him, her lower lip trembling.
"Talk to me," Brandon said. "Please."
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sounds of traffic and the hum of the kitchen exhaust fans.
Then Elena broke.
"They took her." The words came out in a rush, choked with tears. "They took my mom."
"Who took her?"
"The men my father owed money to. Vic and his people." Elena wrapped her arms around herself like she was trying to hold herself together. "They showed up at our apartment last night. Said we were out of time. Said if I didn't pay what we owed by the end of the week, they'd..." She couldn't finish the sentence.
"They'd what?"
Elena looked at him with eyes that had seen too much. "They said they'd put her to work. In one of their... their places. A brothel."
Brandon felt sick.
"She's fifty-three years old," Elena continued, her voice breaking. "She's sick. She can barely walk most days. And they're going to..." She pressed a hand over her mouth, fighting back a sob.
"How much do you owe?"
"Twenty thousand. Plus interest."
Twenty thousand dollars. The same amount that had haunted Brandon's own nightmares. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.
"There has to be something we can do," Brandon said. "The police—"
"The police don't care about people like us." Elena shook her head bitterly. "I tried that years ago, when my dad first disappeared. They took a report and nothing happened. Vic has people everywhere. Cops, judges, everyone. Nobody's going to help us."
"Then we'll find another way."
"There is no other way!" Elena's composure shattered completely. "I've tried everything. I've worked every job I could find. I've sold everything we owned. I've begged and borrowed and scraped together every penny, and it's still not enough. It's never enough."
She turned away, shoulders heaving.
"I'm out of time, Brandon. By Friday, either I pay them twenty thousand dollars I don't have, or my mother..." She couldn't say it again.
Brandon watched her cry, her pain mirroring his own in ways she couldn't know. A daughter paying for her father's sins. A family destroyed by gambling and debt. The same story, playing out over and over again.
He thought about Lily. About the path he was putting her on.
"I'll help you," he said quietly.
Elena laughed through her tears—a harsh, broken sound. "With what? You work the same minimum wage job I do. You can barely afford to feed yourself."
"I'll find a way."
"Stop." She turned to face him, her eyes red and swollen. "Just stop. I don't need your promises. I don't need your hope. I need twenty thousand dollars by Friday, and unless you can pull that out of thin air, there's nothing you can do."
She pushed past him and walked back toward the kitchen, leaving Brandon alone with the dumpsters and the smell of rotting food and the weight of another impossible problem.
---
His shift ended at seven.
Brandon walked out of Burger Barn into the evening air, his body exhausted and his mind spinning. Elena's words echoed in his head. Twenty thousand dollars. By Friday.
He thought about his mother in the hospital. About the twelve thousand he still owed. About Castellano's fifty thousand and the foreclosure notice on his house and all the other debts piling up like bodies in a mass grave.
He thought about the woman in the black suit, about what he'd done for twenty-five hundred dollars, about what else he might have to do to keep the money coming.
He thought about giving up.
And then he saw the lights.
The Golden Palace Casino sat three blocks from Burger Barn, its neon signs blazing against the darkening sky. It wasn't the Lucky Dragon—smaller, seedier, the kind of place that catered to desperate people with empty pockets and full hearts.
Brandon's kind of place.
He stood on the sidewalk, staring at those lights, feeling the old familiar pull in his chest. The hunger he'd been suppressing for weeks, pushing down every time it tried to surface. The voice in his head that whispered about odds and chances and one big win that would solve everything.
Don't, a small voice warned. Don't do this. You know how it ends.
But the larger voice was louder.
Twenty thousand dollars. You could win that. You've won that much before. One good night. One lucky streak. You could save Elena's mother. You could pay off the hospital. You could fix everything.
Brandon's feet were moving before he made the conscious decision to walk.
The doors of the Golden Palace opened with a rush of air conditioning and the familiar symphony of slot machines and shuffling cards.
Brandon stepped inside.
---
The blackjack table welcomed him like an old friend.
Brandon sat down with five hundred dollars—money he couldn't afford to lose, money he'd earned through means he didn't want to think about. The dealer nodded at him, a thin man with hollow eyes who had probably seen a thousand gamblers just like him.
The first hand went badly. Then the second. Then the third.
Within an hour, Brandon was down to his last hundred dollars.
Walk away, the small voice pleaded. Cut your losses. Get out while you still can.
But the other voice was stronger now, fed by desperation and the whiskey the waitress kept bringing.
"Double down," Brandon said, pushing his remaining chips forward.
The dealer raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The cards came out.
Brandon lost.
He sat there, staring at the empty felt where his chips had been, and felt... nothing. The despair he'd expected didn't come. Just a hollow emptiness, like all his emotions had been scooped out and replaced with sawdust.
This is who you are, he thought. A loser. A failure. A man who destroys everything he touches.
The waitress appeared at his elbow. "Can I get you another drink, honey?"
"Whiskey. Double."
She returned moments later with a glass that Brandon drained in one swallow. The alcohol burned going down, settling into his stomach like liquid fire.
He should leave. He had nothing left to gamble with, nothing left to lose.
But his feet wouldn't move.
"Excuse me."
Brandon looked up. A man in a cheap suit was standing beside the table, a casino employee judging by the name tag on his chest.
"Sir, I noticed you've been having a rough night. The Golden Palace offers a complimentary line of credit for valued customers. Would you be interested in—"
"How much?"
The man smiled. "For a first-time borrower, we could extend up to five thousand dollars. The interest rate is quite reasonable."
Brandon knew he shouldn't. Knew this was exactly how he'd ended up fifty thousand in debt to Castellano. Knew that taking this money would only drag him deeper into the pit he was trying to climb out of.
"Give me the five thousand."
---
The next three hours passed in a blur of cards and chips and whiskey.
Brandon lost. Won a little back. Lost more. Won again. The numbers blurred together, meaningless, just patterns on felt and the endless shuffle of the deck.
At some point, he stopped caring about the money entirely. Stopped thinking about Elena and her mother, about his own mother in the hospital, about Julia and Lily and everyone else he'd failed. The world narrowed to the table in front of him, the cards in his hand, the simple binary of win or lose.
It was almost peaceful.
"Sir?" The dealer was looking at him with something like concern. "Are you sure you want to bet all of that?"
Brandon looked down at his chips. He'd managed to claw his way back somehow—not to even, but close. He had maybe three thousand in front of him.
All in.
The thought came from somewhere deep and reckless, the same place that had driven him into casinos for years. The same voice that promised miracles and delivered disasters.
"All of it," Brandon said, pushing everything forward. "Let it ride."
The dealer hesitated, then shrugged and dealt the cards.
Brandon watched them fall, his vision swimming slightly from the whiskey. An eight. A king. Eighteen.
Not great, but not terrible.
"Hit," he said.
A three. Twenty-one.
Brandon held his breath as the dealer flipped his own cards. Fifteen. The dealer drew again. A queen. Twenty-five. Bust.
"Winner," the dealer announced, pushing a stack of chips toward Brandon.
Brandon stared at them, not quite believing what had happened. He counted quickly—six thousand dollars. He'd doubled his money.
Stop now, the small voice whispered. Take the money and walk away.
But the hunger was awake now, fully fed by adrenaline and alcohol and the intoxicating rush of victory.
"Again," Brandon said.
The next hand was a blackjack. Three thousand became seven thousand.
The hand after that, another win. Seven thousand became twelve.
Brandon kept playing, kept winning, kept watching his pile of chips grow while the rational part of his brain screamed at him to stop. The dealer's expression had shifted from boredom to concern to something approaching fear. Other players drifted away from the table, giving Brandon space, sensing something in the air that made them uncomfortable.
By midnight, Brandon had twenty thousand dollars in chips stacked in front of him.
Twenty thousand dollars. Exactly what Elena needed.
This is it, he thought. This is the miracle. One more hand and I could double it again. I could pay off Elena's debt AND the hospital bills. I could fix everything.
His hands were already reaching for his chips when he saw her.
A flash of dark hair, disappearing around the corner toward the back of the casino. A familiar figure in a jacket that was too big for her shoulders.
Elena.
Brandon froze, his hand hovering over his chips. What was she doing here? The Golden Palace wasn't the kind of place a girl like her should be. Not unless—
His stomach dropped.
He thought about what she'd said earlier. About being out of options. About doing whatever it took to save her mother.
Twenty thousand dollars by Friday.
One of their places. A brothel.
Brandon swept his chips into his hands and stood so quickly his chair nearly toppled over.
"Sir?" The dealer looked startled. "Are you cashing out?"
"Yes. Now."
He stumbled to the cashier's window, shoving his chips through the slot with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. The attendant counted them slowly, methodically, and handed over a stack of bills that felt impossibly thick.
Twenty thousand dollars. Minus the five thousand he owed the casino for the line of credit. Fifteen thousand in cash, stuffed into his pockets like contraband.
Brandon didn't care about the math. He pushed away from the window and headed toward the back of the casino, toward the corner where Elena had disappeared.
The casino floor gave way to a narrow hallway lined with doors. Private rooms, probably—the kind of places where high rollers could lose money away from prying eyes. Or where other transactions took place.
Brandon moved quickly, checking each door as he passed. Most were locked. Some opened onto empty rooms. None of them contained Elena.
He was about to turn back when he saw it.
A door at the very end of the hall, slightly ajar. Light spilling through the crack. And voices—low, murmuring, one of them unmistakably female.
Brandon approached slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He pushed the door open.
Elena stood in the center of the room, her back to him, her jacket already on the floor. Her fingers were working at the buttons of her shirt, undoing them one by one, revealing the thin fabric of her undershirt beneath.
A man sat in a chair across from her, older, heavyset, watching with an expression of casual hunger.
Elena's shirt fell away.
She turned at the sound of the door opening, and her eyes met Brandon's.
For one frozen moment, neither of them moved.
Then Elena's face crumpled into something between horror and despair.
"Brandon?"