Chapter Four: Careful, Kier.

Kier POV

The shift ended with the soft clink of glassware being stacked and the low murmur of the last guests leaving Luna Roja.

I was at my locker, slipping into my street clothes — black jeans, a loose white shirt, jacket slung over one arm — when one of the newer hosts leaned in the doorway, watching me. “You leaving already?” His tone was casual, but his eyes weren’t.

“Shift’s over,” I said, tucking my cross earring into my pocket before shutting the locker.

I didn’t realize yet how little control I still had.

The room wasn’t quiet. It never was when I was in it. Even without trying, I caught the glances. The whispers. The slight pause in conversation when I moved past.

Some of them were bold about it, stopping me to compliment my eyes or the way my shirt fit, leaning in too close like they were testing a boundary. Others just… stared.

It was a constant. A fact of my life I’d learned not to react to.

“Night, Kier,” one of the bartenders called as I headed for the back exit.

I nodded once, pushing into the cool night air.

⸻

On my bike, the city smelled different after rain — salt from the sea mixing with street food smoke and wet pavement. I cut through the Spanish quarter toward the Japanese district, stopping at a small convenience store where the aisles were lined with neatly packaged bentos and canned drinks.

I grabbed a pre-made oyakodon and a can of chūhai — peach flavor — for a quick buzz. Paid in coins, shoved the plastic bag into my satchel, and pedaled the rest of the way home.

⸻

The building was as run-down as ever. I chained the bike to the post out front, climbed the narrow stairwell, and wrestled with my stubborn door lock until it gave.

Inside, the air was still faintly damp. I dropped the bag on the counter, stripped out of my clothes, and headed straight for the shower. The water was hot, steam curling against the cracked tile, washing off the scent of perfume and liquor clinging from the bar.

I toweled off, pulling on an oversized tee and thin shorts before carrying my food to the low table by the window. The oyakodon was lukewarm, but good enough. The chūhai was sweet, fizzy, gone too quickly. By the second can, my shoulders had loosened.

The card was still in my pocket.

I turned it over in my hand, the black matte catching the dim light. “Work for me,” he’d said.

I didn’t need to think about what that meant. I’d heard worse. Done worse, if you counted surviving as doing. My mind dragged back to that first meeting — the way Lavender had suggested “selling my body” with that amused grin.

“Asshole,” I muttered, dropping the card onto the table like it had burned me.

I scrubbed a hand through my hair hard enough to muss it, then pushed the thought away.

⸻

The old laptop sat on the counter. I flipped it open, pulled up my code, and lost myself in the work. The lines flowed easily — a freelance job for a client who’d wired the money before I even finished. I sent the file, got the confirmation, and felt the small hit of satisfaction… right before the laptop’s screen went black.

“Shit.”

I tried the power button. Nothing.

I pulled on a pair of regular pants and shoes, grabbing the dead laptop and heading downstairs. Across the street, the pawn shop’s flickering neon light was the only thing illuminating the small repair shop next to it.

⸻

The bell over the door jingled when I pushed it open.

And there he was.

Julian.

Light brown hair catching the low fluorescent light, hazel eyes finding mine instantly.

I didn’t even try to hide the irritation in my voice. “If this is another coincidence, I’m going to start believing in fate — and I don’t believe in fate.”

He didn’t flinch. “You made that clear at the Luna Roja yesterday.”

I stepped closer. “I’m not interested in anything Lavender wants from me. I don’t trust him. Or you. I just want to pay off my debt and be left alone.”

“Your debt,” Julian said evenly, “isn’t going away the way you’re going. Not in your lifetime.”

I opened my mouth to snap back, but he kept talking.

“We’re offering you a translator position. Russian, French, English. Well-paid. Enough to have your debt cleared in five years.”

I froze. Five years.

The original debt, I’d calculated, would put me in my sixties before I saw the end of it. With the new amount… I’d be dead before I paid it off.

“What’s the catch?”

“Nothing beyond the nature of the work. You’ll be briefed if you accept.”

I hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “…Fine. But I have conditions.”

Julian didn’t look surprised. He reached into his coat, pulling out another black envelope and placing it on the counter between us. “Meet us here tomorrow. Ten o’clock.”

I took the card, left the laptop with the shop owner, and stepped back out into the night.

⸻

Back in my apartment, I dropped the card on the table and went straight to bed, but sleep didn’t come clean.

When it did, it brought me back to the small, windowless room.

The smell of damp rope. The weight of hands on my shoulders. The sound of a lock clicking shut.

The night I was taken.

⸻

The dream never started at the beginning.

It didn’t start with the van door slamming or the smell of gasoline in the air.

It started here — in that narrow, airless room.

The walls were rough concrete, water streaking down in thin lines from somewhere above. A single bulb swung from the ceiling, throwing long shadows that bent and swayed like they were watching me.

My wrists were bound with rope. Not tight enough to cut off circulation, but enough to bite deep when I moved. My ankles too — crossed and fixed to the leg of a rusted chair.

The voices came first. Low, accented, speaking a language I couldn’t place. Laughter, muffled through the crack in the door.

Then the hinges groaned.

One stepped in. Heavy boots scraping the floor. The smell hit before the touch — stale sweat, cigarette smoke, alcohol that burned the back of my throat.

He grabbed my chin, fingers digging in until my jaw ached, tilting my head up. My hair caught in his rings, pulling strands at the root.

I remember his eyes. Flat. Cruel. Looking at me like I wasn’t there at all.

The door shut behind him. The lock clicked. Another pair of boots moved in behind the chair.

The first one said something I didn’t understand. The second laughed. Then the rope at my wrists tightened as hands wrenched my arms up.

I jerked back instinctively, my shoulders hitting the cold wall. The chair tipped forward, scraping my shins.

My pulse was loud in my ears. I could taste copper.

They didn’t care about my voice — not the way it broke when I told them to stop. Not the way I tried to twist out of reach. My shirt tore at the collar. One of them pressed me down, his breath hot and sour against my ear as he muttered words I didn’t need to understand to know the meaning of.

The floor was cold against my hip when they forced me lower. Rope scraping my skin. Weight holding me there until the fight went out of my muscles.

⸻

The dream always blurred after that.

The sound of my own breath catching.

The heavy thud of boots moving away.

The final click of the lock.

⸻

I woke hard, heart hammering, the dark of my apartment too close. The air felt thick, heavy, my shirt damp with sweat.

It took minutes before I could breathe evenly again.

The card was still on the table.

My skin crawled just looking at it. Rope. Locks. Hands. Don’t think about that. Don’t let him in there.

I turned my head away from it and stayed that way until the first light pushed its way in through the blinds.