“The life don’t knock. It waits. In silence. In shadows. In numbers with no name.”


The offer came three days after Keke disappeared.


I was at the salon alone, restocking polish when my phone buzzed—no name, just a number I didn’t recognize. The message was short. Cold.


“$3,000. One night. Downtown loft. Client wants discretion.”


I stared at it for a long time.


Three thousand. That was rent for six months. Supplies. A cushion big enough to breathe. The kind of number that made dreams feel real.


But I knew better.


There’s no such thing as a clean exit when the price is that high.


I didn’t respond right away. I took the long way home, head down, hoodie up. The streets felt heavier. The rain didn’t help. Every car that slowed down made me flinch.


When I got in, I sat on the couch with my red notebook.


Step 8: Never go back.


I circled it. Underlined it. Then flipped to a fresh page.


But I couldn’t write. Couldn’t breathe.


My phone buzzed again.


“Client says 5k. Final offer. Tonight at 10. Don’t keep him waiting.”


I stared at the screen like it might blink first.


I thought of Keke—pale and tired, talking about lemon bars and dreams that never got baked.


I thought of Elijah—his slow smile, the way he said my name like it mattered.


I thought of Marcus. Watching. Waiting. Probably behind this whole thing. Just checking if I’d fold.


I stood up, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed the blade from the drawer.


Just in case.


10:03 PM.


The loft was in River North. High-rise. Private elevator. No name on the call box. The type of place that paid extra to keep the world out.


I told myself it was the last time.


That’s what we always say.


The man who opened the door wasn’t what I expected.


Young. Clean. Looked like a hedge fund baby. Nervous smile. Shaky hands.


“Hi, I’m—uh—Daniel,” he said.


I nodded, stepping inside. “Ground rules: You touch only what I let you. You try anything slick, I walk. You got the money?”


He held up a black envelope. “All here. Cash. I just… I just want company. Nothing more.”


I didn’t believe him.


But I sat on the edge of the leather sofa and crossed my legs, watching him like prey.


He poured us both wine. Tried to talk.


But I wasn’t there to listen. I was there to survive.


An hour passed.


Two.


He didn’t touch me.


Didn’t ask for anything but conversation.


“I’m tired of feeling alone,” he said finally. “It’s like… no matter how much I make, nobody sees me.”


I didn’t respond. Because deep down, I understood.


And that scared me.


When I left, the city was quiet.


I didn’t count the money until I got home. All there. Crisp bills. No blood on them. But it still felt dirty.


I stood in the shower for thirty minutes, scrubbing until my skin turned pink.


Then I pulled out the notebook.


I stared at Step 8: Never go back.


And I didn’t cross it off.


Because going back—even once—meant the door was still open.


I grabbed the blade. Walked to the window. Looked down at the street. My reflection in the glass looked different.


Harder.


But my heart? It was screaming.


I picked up my phone and typed:


Elijah… you awake?


His reply came seconds later.


Always. What’s wrong?


Can we talk?


You already are.