I stand on unsteady legs, wrapping my arms around myself. "Right. Okay."
Fiend's expression softens slightly as he steps aside to let me pass. "Just...be careful out there. Lay low for a while.”
The genuine concern in his voice catches me off guard. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and push through the door into the warehouse beyond.
The crowd has thinned considerably, and I keep my head down as I make my way toward what I hope is an exit, hyperaware of a few curious looks thrown my way.
The moment I step outside, I take my first full breath since this whole nightmare began. Relief.
But the relief is short-lived when I unconsciously reach for my backpack strap. Reality slams back into me with a crushing blow. It’s back in the alley along with my keys, wallet, and phone.
My stomach clenches with fresh anxiety. Going back to look for my stuff isn't an option—not with executioners possibly lurking around. But I also can't get into my apartment without keys.
The walk back home feels endless. Every shadow could be hiding a killer. Every sound makes me jump. By the time I reach my building, I'm wound so tight I might snap from a strong breeze.
I pause at the entrance, scanning the street for anything suspicious. A few homeless people huddled in doorways, a stray cat picking through garbage, but no menacing figures with guns. The mundane normalcy of it almost makes me laugh. After everything that's happened, the world just keeps spinning like nothing changed.
My landlord, Freddie Breznikar, lives in the basement apartment, and I really don't want to wake him up. The man's ornery on the best of days, and rousing him in the early hours of the morning will put him in an especially foul mood. But what choice do I have?
I wince at how loud my knock sounds in the quiet building. After a few minutes, I hear shuffling and muttered curses before the door swings open.
Freddie stands there in a stained undershirt and boxers, his beer gut straining against the threadbare fabric. His thinning hair sticks up at odd angles, and his beady eyes are bloodshot. The smell of stale beer and armpit sweat hits me. Not that I have room to complain. I probably smell worse, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Yeah, what the fuck d’you want?” His scowl deepens as he takes in my disheveled appearance. “You know what time it is?!”
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Breznikar. I know it's late, but my purse was stolen tonight and I don't have my keys." I force my voice to stay steady and apologetic. "Could you please let me into my apartment?"
His expression shifts from annoyed to calculating, and something oily slides into his gaze as it rakes over me from head to toe. "Stolen, huh? That's a shame."
His lecherous sneer makes my skin crawl, but it’s not the worst thing I’ve dealt with tonight. "If you could just?—"
“By the way, I been meaning to inform you." His lips curve into a smile that shows off his yellow teeth. One of his front incisors is missing. "Rent's going up next month. Two hundred more."
The words rock my already fragile composure. "What? You can't do that."
He laughs, the sound harsh and grating. "This here’s my building, sugar tits. I can do what I want.”
"You're required to give ninety days' notice for rent increases." I try to keep my voice firm despite the panic clawing its way up my chest.
"Yeah?" He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his man boobs. "Got a problem wit’ it? File a complaint with the Housing Commission."
We both know I can't afford the time or energy to fight a system that doesn't give a damn about people like me. He knows I'm trapped, and he's enjoying every second of it.
His voice drops, and he shoots me a disgusting wink. "I might be willing to work out some kind of arrangement to help you cover that extra two hundred." His eyes drift down to my chest again, lingering there with obvious intent.
The implication roils my already queasy stomach. "I'll keep that in mind," I manage through gritted teeth.
“I knew you was a smart girl.” He grins like he's won something and pushes off the doorframe. "Now, about getting you inside..."
I follow him through the dim hallway to the stairs. At my door, he fumbles with his massive key ring, taking longer than necessary and "accidentally" brushing against my breasts twice.
"There you go." He hands me the spare key, letting his fingers trail over mine. "Just lemme know when you want to work off that rent increase.”
"Right. Thanks." I practically slam the door in his face, immediately engaging both locks and the chain.
My tiny studio apartment is not much—just one room with a Murphy bed that pulls down from the wall, a kitchenette that barely deserves the label, and a bathroom the size of a closet. But it's clean and it's mine, even if I can barely afford it, and tonight it feels like a sanctuary.
After the prolonged adrenaline spike, I’m now experiencing a crash, and I’m exhausted. But I desperately need a shower and want to wash myself clean of the lingering traces of this nightmare.
