Herring

Falk Street

Falk Street at midnight is a different animal. It breathes different. The shadows are thicker, the silence is heavier, and every sound—every f*****g sound—is a threat wrapped in an echo. I stood in the mouth of the alley where I'd painted my stupid fish two weeks ago, where I'd almost died two weeks ago, where I was now apparently choosing to almost die again. Because I'm a genius. Because I'm a f*****g academic weapon. Because the legal world had given me a rent increase and a limp and nothing else.

The wall was still there. My words—f*****g TIRED—had been painted over. Grey on grey. Erased. Like I'd never been here. Like none of it had happened.

Good. That's good. Leave no trace. That's the first rule of whatever the f**k I'm about to do.

I waited.

The cold seeped through my jacket. My ribs ached. My ankle throbbed. My hand, still wrapped, still healing, still a reminder that I had held onto something while I drowned, pulsed with a dull, steady pain. I counted the hours in breaths. In the distant wail of sirens that never came closer. In the scuttle of rats in the dumpster behind me. In the slow, creeping certainty that this was the stupidest thing I had ever done, and I had done some profoundly stupid things.

They're not coming. They moved on. They found a better alley. They're in jail. They're dead. They never existed. You imagined them. You imagined all of it. You're standing in the cold for nothing.

And then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Unhurried. The walk of someone who owned this block or believed he did. A shape emerged from the far end of the alley, hands in pockets, hood up, face half-hidden. But I recognized him. The way he moved. The tilt of his head. The one who'd asked for my phone. The one who'd smiled like we were sharing a joke I didn't understand.

I stepped out of the shadow.

Deia: "Hey."

He stopped. Froze. His head turned, slow, like an animal catching a scent it didn't expect. His eyes found me. Narrowed. Then widened.

Man: "What the f**k—"

Deia: "I need to talk to you."

He stared. His hand went to his pocket—not reaching for anything, just... ready. The posture of someone who had learned that surprises were usually bad.

Man: "You're that girl. The bridge girl. You're supposed to be dead."

Deia: "I get that a lot."

Man: "The f**k are you doing here?"

Deia: "I want in."

Silence. He looked at me like I'd spoken a language he didn't recognize.

Man: "In."

Deia: "Your operation. Whatever you do. Robbery. Theft. I don't care. I need money. I need it fast. I want in."

He laughed. Not a nice laugh. The laugh of someone who'd just found a wallet on the ground and was checking to see if it had cash.

Man: "Yo. Get over here."

He didn't shout. He didn't need to. The alley seemed to shift, and from the darkness, shapes emerged. One. Two. Three. Four. Five total, including him. More than last time. Bigger than last time. They circled like wolves who'd already decided the deer wasn't getting away.

The one in front—the one I'd spoken to—crossed his arms.

Man: "Say that again."

Deia: "I want in. I need money. Rent's going up. I can't afford it. I've got medical bills. I've got nothing. No family. No help. No one. I'm alone. I'm f*****g alone and I need money and I know you do things that make money. So let me do them with you."

They looked at each other. A silent conversation passed between them in glances and slight tilts of the head.

Another one spoke—taller, thinner, a scar across his eyebrow.

Scar: "This is sketchy as s**t. She could be police."

Deia: "I'm not police."

Scar: "That's exactly what police would say."

Deia: "The police questioned me for hours after the bridge. They let me go because I'm nobody. I'm not a cop. I'm not a rat. I'm just a girl who's about to lose her apartment and has no other options."

The first man stepped closer. Too close. I could smell him—sweat, smoke, something sour underneath.

Man: "You're not smart, are you. Coming here. Asking this. You don't know us. You don't know what we do. You don't know anything."

Deia: "I know you need people. I know I'm a woman. I'm less likely to be suspected. I can go places you can't. I can do things you can't."

Man: "Yeah?"

His hand came up. Fast. He grabbed my collar and slammed me back against the wall. My head cracked against the brick. Pain—white and hot—bloomed at the base of my skull. My ribs screamed. My ankle buckled. I didn't fall because he was holding me up, his fist twisted in my jacket, his face inches from mine.

Man: "You're a woman, alright."

His other hand moved. A knife. I hadn't seen him draw it. It was just there, suddenly, the blade catching the faint light from the streetlamp at the alley's mouth. He ran the flat of it down my chest, over my dress, slow. Deliberate. The metal was cold through the fabric.

Man: "And there are things we can do with a woman. Things we can do to a body like yours. You understand what I'm saying?"

I understood. Every cell in my body understood. The animal part of my brain was screaming run fight scream do something but there was nowhere to run. Five of them. A knife. My body already broken. I was pinned to a wall in an alley I'd chosen to come to.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid f*****g stupid—

Tears were streaming down my face. I didn't know when they'd started. I didn't try to stop them.

Deia: "Will you pay me."

My voice came out wrong. Cracked. Wet. But the words were there. And beneath the tears, beneath the terror, I felt my mouth twist into something that might have been a smile. Crooked. Broken. Insane.

Man: "What?"

Deia: "If you're going to do things to my body. Will you pay me for it. I need the money."

He stared. The knife paused. The others shifted behind him—I could feel their confusion, their unease. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to beg. She was supposed to scream. She wasn't supposed to negotiate.

Scar: "She's f*****g crazy."

Man: "Yeah. She is."

He pressed me harder against the wall. My head hit the brick again. The world wobbled. His free hand moved to the hem of my dress, fingers hooking under the fabric.

Man: "Doesn't matter. Crazy f***s the same as sane."

I closed my eyes.

Aldy. The floor. The kettle. The crack in the ceiling. My bed. My beautiful, lumpy bed. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I—

A voice cut through the dark.

"And here I thought I was the only one who liked this spot."

Everyone froze.

The voice was casual. Almost bored. It came from the mouth of the alley, from the direction I'd come, from the shadows that had been empty a second ago. A shape leaned against the wall, arms crossed, three coats hanging off a broad frame. Beanie pulled low. Scarf over the lower half of his face. But I knew him. I knew the way he stood—like he was perfectly comfortable with whatever was happening, like the world was a show and he'd already read the script.

Anders.