We push through dinner service with duct tape and stubbornness.
I borrow onions from the bodega next door.
I run to the corner market for tomatoes myself.
We comp meals when we have to.
Customers leave bigger tips than usual.
Someone pays for the table behind them.
Word spreads fast in a neighborhood like this.
By closing, my whole body hurts.
We lock the front door.
Ishaan heads home.
Mara stays behind while I count the till.
“You’re shaking,” she says.
“Adrenaline crash.”
“You’re lying.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’m furious.”
She sighs.
“You’re going to get hurt.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “But not today.”
After she leaves, I step into the alley.
The air is cold and damp.
Trash bags pile up near the dumpster.
The security light flickers.
And right there on the pavement?—
The Nine’s sigil.
Burned into the concrete in greasy black ash.
Still warm at the edges.
My breath leaves my body.
“Oh, you absolute pieces of shit,” I whisper.
I drop to my knees.
I grab a scrub brush and the industrial cleaner from inside.
