“What happened tonight?” I ask evenly.
He lets out a strained breath, shoulders tightening against the metal as the movement drags pain across his side.
“Collection,” he replies. “Same as usual.”
His eyes dart briefly toward Karp before returning to me.
“You working with them?”
I let the silence linger long enough for him to reconsider the question.
“Who removed you from the vehicle?” I question.
“Two guys,” he answers. “Didn’t give names.”
“Describe them.”
He swallows, his jaw tightening as he tests the range of motion available without triggering pain.
“One shaved head. One with a beard. Both heavy. Didn’t talk much.”
He studies my face for recognition and finds none.
“They broke your arm previously?” I continue.
“Yeah,” he answers, and the word carries both frustration and humiliation.
“And tonight?”
“They wanted to see if I healed.”
His fingers twitch against his thigh again before he forces them still by pressing his palm flat against the metal chair.
“How much do you owe?”
He looks away briefly toward the concrete floor.
“Sixty-two thousand,” he replies after a pause. “With interest.”
“And this escalated in the last six months?”
He tries to sit up straighter, then gives up and angles himself away from the pain.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I got in deep.”
“You don’t look like a man who enjoys risk.”
He lifts his chin slightly.
“Didn’t think it would get this far.”
Few men do.
“They increased the rate,” he continues, words coming faster now. “Late fees. Penalties. They said if I kept winning, I’d clear it. Then I stopped winning.”
“And your sister became aware.”
His posture changes immediately at the mention of Lila. His spine straightens despite the pain.
