The Debt Collector

One

## Kraeyon

Kraeyon Lewis lay sprawled across her bed, one arm tucked beneath her head while the other held her phone above her face. The dim light from the screen illuminated the tired features she had been trying to ignore all day, making the dark circles beneath her eyes look even more obvious. She stared at the small number displayed on her banking application for what felt like the hundredth time, hoping that perhaps she had somehow miscalculated earlier. Maybe there was more money there than she remembered.

Maybe she had forgotten about a deposit. Maybe Quentin had already sent her the payment for the extra hours she had worked last week. But no matter how many times she refreshed the screen, the number stubbornly remained the same. Kraeyon let out a long, miserable groan and dropped the phone onto her chest.

Three days. Four if they were careful. That was probably how long the money would last if they bought only the necessities—rice, vegetables, some meat, bread for Jett, and perhaps a few things her father needed whether she liked it or not. After that, she would be staring at an empty account again and wondering how she was going to stretch another week out of nothing.

“Three days,” she muttered, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe four if everyone suddenly forgets how to eat.”

She picked up her phone again and began calculating expenses in her head, even though she already knew the answer wasn't going to change. Groceries would take a large chunk of it. Electricity was due soon. There was transportation to think about, and Jett needed new shoes because the soles of his current pair were beginning to separate. She had been putting that particular expense off for weeks, promising herself that she would buy him a new pair after the next paycheck, then the next, then the next.

There was always something more urgent. There was always another bill, another emergency, another reason why the little money she managed to save disappeared before she could even feel like she had saved anything at all. Kraeyon rubbed her forehead and sighed deeply. Maybe she should ask Quentin for more shifts. The small chicken restaurant wasn't exactly glamorous, and working there meant spending hours on her feet running between tables, taking orders, handling the register, cleaning, carrying trays, and occasionally helping in the kitchen when they were short-staffed, but Quentin was kind. He treated her better than most employers would have, especially considering how often she asked for extra hours.

“If I could just cut myself in half,” she grumbled, “one of me could work during the day and the other could work at night.”

She actually imagined it for a second, picturing two versions of herself running around town trying to earn enough money to keep their household afloat. The ridiculousness of the thought almost made her laugh, but the laugh never came. Instead, she found herself thinking about getting another job entirely. Something at night. Maybe a convenience store. Maybe a diner that stayed open until morning. Maybe cleaning offices after everyone had gone home. She didn't care what it was as long as they paid. She could sleep later. Sleep wasn't important when there were bills to pay. She could survive on a few hours a night. She had already been doing that anyway. Every morning, she dragged herself out of bed exhausted, worked her shift, came home, cooked, cleaned, checked on Jett, dealt with their father, and then spent another hour counting money that never seemed to be enough.

She was still mentally listing possible night jobs when a soft knock came from her bedroom door.

“Krae?”

Her thoughts immediately stopped.

Before she could answer, the door slowly opened, and a small head peeked through the gap.

Jett.

His brown hair was slightly messy, his pajamas were wrinkled, and he was holding onto the doorframe with both hands as he looked at her with wide, hopeful eyes.

Kraeyon immediately knew that expression.

“No.”

Jett blinked.

“I haven't even asked yet.”

“You're going to ask for something.”

His little face brightened. “Pizza?”

Kraeyon stared at him.

Jett grinned.

“Can we have pizza tonight?”

Kraeyon couldn't help but smile despite herself. She moved over slightly on the bed, making room beside her. “Come here.”

Jett immediately ran inside, climbed onto the mattress, and flopped down beside her with all the enthusiasm of a child who had forgotten that beds weren't trampolines. Kraeyon laughed softly as he bounced once before settling down, his head landing against the pillow beside hers.

“Pizza,” he repeated, as though she hadn't heard him the first time.

“You really want pizza, huh?”

“Yes.”

“We're having stew.”

Jett's expression immediately fell.

“Dad's stew?”

“Yes.”

He groaned dramatically and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling as though Kraeyon had just delivered the worst news imaginable. “Dad's stew tastes bad.”

Kraeyon laughed. “It isn't that bad.”

“It is.”

“You haven't even tasted it.”

“I know what it tastes like.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“It does.”

Kraeyon shook her head, smiling. “Your father cooked it himself. You should at least try it.”

Jett turned toward her and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “He's only cooking because later he's going to ask you for money.”

Kraeyon stared at him for a second before letting out a surprised laugh.

“Where did you learn to think like that?”

“I'm smart.”

“Clearly.”

“He always asks you for money after he cooks.”

Kraeyon's smile slowly faded.

Unfortunately, Jett wasn't wrong.

Their father did have a habit of suddenly becoming helpful whenever he needed something from her. Sometimes he cooked. Sometimes he cleaned. Sometimes he would suddenly act like the father Kraeyon remembered from years ago, and every time, there was usually a request waiting at the end of it.

She sighed and reached over to gently mess up Jett's already messy hair.

“There isn't any money.”

Jett's expression softened.

“So no pizza?”

“Not tonight.”

“But I want pizza.”

“I know.”

“I really want pizza.”

“I know, Jett.”

“We haven't had pizza in forever.”

Kraeyon smiled sadly.

“It hasn't been forever.”

“It feels like forever.”

She couldn't argue with that.

Jett was quiet for a moment before making another unhappy face.

“I don't want Dad's stew.”

“You're eating it.”

“What if it tastes bad?”

“Then we'll survive.”

“What if it's super salty?”

“Then we'll drink water.”

“What if it's tasteless?”

“Then we'll add salt.”

“What if there's too much salt already?”

Kraeyon laughed.

“Then we'll pretend we're eating fancy food.”

Jett stared at her.

“What?”

“Fancy food.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Something rich people eat.”

Jett thought about it seriously.

“Rich people eat pizza.”

Kraeyon burst out laughing.

“You're impossible.”

“And hungry.”

That was when Kraeyon finally reached over and poked him in the ribs.

Jett squealed.

“Krae!”

“What?”

“Stop!”

She poked him again.

Jett immediately retaliated, his tiny fingers attacking her side.

Kraeyon gasped and rolled away.

“No! Jett!”

“You started it!”

“You little—”

She grabbed him and began tickling him, and suddenly the room filled with the sound of Jett's laughter. He kicked his feet against the mattress, trying desperately to escape while Kraeyon laughed just as hard, her earlier worries temporarily forgotten. Jett eventually managed to turn the tables and attacked her sides, causing Kraeyon to squeal and twist away from him.

“Okay! Okay! Stop!”

“You started it!”

“I surrender!”

Jett finally stopped, collapsing beside her with a breathless giggle.

For several minutes, they simply lay there, side by side, trying to catch their breath.

Kraeyon turned her head.

Jett was smiling.

She smiled too.

Those little moments were precious to her.

They were the reason she endured everything.

The bills.

The exhaustion.

The arguments.

Their father's drinking.

The uncertainty.

Everything.

Because no matter how bad life became, she still had Jett.

After a while, Jett's laughter faded. He stared quietly at the ceiling, his little hands resting on his stomach.

“Krae?”

“Hmm?”

“I miss Mom.”

The smile on Kraeyon's face disappeared.

She looked at her little brother.

Jett continued staring at the ceiling, his voice quieter now.

“I really miss her.”

Kraeyon's throat tightened.

“I miss her too.”

“Do you think she can see us?”

Kraeyon swallowed before forcing a smile.

“Probably.”

“Right now?”

“Definitely.”

Jett frowned thoughtfully.

“Do you think she's watching us?”

Kraeyon nodded.

“I'm sure she is.”

Jett's eyes widened.

“Then she's probably angry.”

Kraeyon laughed softly.

“Why would she be angry?”

“Because I don't want Dad's stew.”

Kraeyon covered her mouth, trying not to laugh too loudly.

“You're probably right. Mom is probably up there shaking her head at you.”

Jett whined.

“But I just want pizza.”

“I know.”

“It's been weeks.”

“I know.”

“I really like cheese pizza.”

“I know.”

Jett looked at her.

“Can we have some tomorrow?”

Kraeyon became quiet.

Tomorrow.

She didn't know how much money she would have tomorrow.

She didn't know if another bill would appear.

She didn't know if their father would ask for money again.

She didn't know if she would have enough groceries.

But she looked at her little brother and saw the hopeful expression on his face.

So she smiled.

“Tomorrow,” she promised, “I'll try to bring home a whole cheese pizza for you.”

Jett's face immediately brightened.

“Really?”

Kraeyon nodded.

“Really.”

He smiled and snuggled closer to her.

Kraeyon stared at the ceiling.

She had no idea how she was going to keep that promise.

But she would.

Somehow, she always did.

---

## Mallum

Across town, Mallum Raystark sat comfortably in a worn leather chair inside Brahman Richards's office, one ankle resting casually over his knee as he stared across the large wooden desk at his employer. At six feet tall, Mallum had always been difficult to miss, but the tattoos covering his arms and the hard expression he naturally wore made him even more intimidating.

He had never particularly cared about looking frightening. In fact, he had always considered it useful. People behaved differently when they thought the man standing in front of them wasn't someone they wanted to provoke, and in Mallum's line of work, fear was sometimes more effective than persuasion. For almost five years, he had worked as one of the debt collectors for Brahman's collection agency, and during those five years, he had developed a reputation for getting results. Mallum himself would proudly say he was the best collector in the company, though most of the other employees would probably say he was the most stubborn. He didn't care which description they preferred. At the end of the day, the money came in.

By hook or by crook.

If someone asked Mallum whether he had ever killed a man over a debt, he would probably smile and tell them that people should learn to pay what they owe before asking questions like that. He wasn't necessarily proud of everything he had done, but he wasn't ashamed either. His job wasn't to make judgments about people. His job was to collect. People borrowed money, signed contracts, ignored deadlines, and then acted surprised when someone came knocking on their doors. Mallum simply happened to be the person sent to knock. That was how the world worked, and he had learned a long time ago not to waste energy feeling sorry for people who had made their own mistakes.

Brahman Richards was an old man with a sly smile and eyes that always seemed to know more than they should. He owned the agency, and Mallum had learned over the years that Brahman's friendly appearance was often more dangerous than the threats of the people who worked for him. Brahman leaned back in his chair, slowly flipping through a file before finally sliding it across the desk.

Mallum looked down.

A photograph.

A man in his late forties.

Grey Lewis.

There was a large number written beside his name.

$50,000.

Mallum picked up the photograph and studied the man's face. Grey looked like the kind of man who had been losing arguments with life for years and had recently decided alcohol was a better opponent. Brahman began explaining the situation, and Mallum listened quietly, his eyes moving over the details in the file. Grey was an alcoholic. He frequented a particular bar and apparently had a history of starting fights there. Most of the time, according to Brahman, Grey got away with being nothing more than an annoying drunk. This time, however, he had picked the wrong man to provoke. Grey had been beaten badly, but somehow the damage done to the bar had ended up becoming his responsibility.

Mallum stared at the photograph again.

Life sucked as always.

The bar owner happened to be an old friend of Brahman's, which explained why the contract had eventually landed on their desk. The owner wanted his money, and Brahman wanted his client satisfied. That meant the debt now belonged to Mallum.

Brahman leaned forward and tapped the file.

“New assignment.”

Mallum looked up.

“Grey Lewis?”

“That’s the one.”

Mallum opened the file and flipped through the paperwork, scanning the information with practiced efficiency. The amount was large enough to make most collectors hesitate, but Mallum didn't even blink. Fifty thousand dollars wasn't impossible. It was simply inconvenient.

Then Brahman added the part that made the situation slightly more complicated.

“There's a problem.”

Mallum raised an eyebrow.

“Of course there is.”

Brahman chuckled.

“Lewis just got fired from his painting job.”

Mallum looked back at the file.

“Then who's paying?”

Brahman leaned back in his chair, smiling.

“His daughter.”

Mallum paused.

“Daughter?”

“Twenty-two years old.”

Mallum's eyes moved down the page.

Kraeyon Lewis.

The name caught his attention for reasons he couldn't explain.

Cute name.

He imagined, without permission, what a woman named Kraeyon might look like. Maybe someone young with a bright smile and an innocent expression, perhaps the kind of girl who would apologize when someone else bumped into her. He pictured a woman who looked completely out of place in the world of debt collection.

Mallum shook his head.

What the hell was he doing?

He was sitting in front of his boss discussing a fifty-thousand-dollar debt, not imagining what the debtor's daughter might look like.

He closed the file with a quiet slap.

“Doesn't matter.”

Brahman looked amused.

Mallum leaned back in his chair and gave him a crooked smile.

“I'll collect the money one way or another.”

Brahman laughed.

“That,” the old man said, pointing at him, “is exactly why you're the best.”

Mallum smirked.

He didn't need the compliment.

But he didn't mind it either.

Brahman picked up another sheet of paper and glanced at it.

“Send Grey Lewis a reminder. Tell him this month's payment is due in five days.”

Mallum nodded.

“How much?”

“Ten thousand.”

Mallum whistled quietly.

“That's going to be a fun conversation.”

Brahman laughed again.

“I'll leave the fun part to you.”

Mallum stood from the chair, towering over the desk as he gathered the file. He rolled the folder casually in one hand before patting the edge of it against Brahman's desk.

“I'll send Mr. Grey Lewis an urgent reminder.”

Brahman nodded.

“And Mallum?”

Mallum stopped at the door.

“Don't come back without something.”

Mallum looked over his shoulder.

A crooked smile slowly appeared on his face.

“I never do.”

He walked out of the office, the file tucked beneath his arm.

His footsteps echoed through the hallway as he headed toward the exit.

The name on the file remained in his mind.

Kraeyon Lewis.

He wondered what kind of daughter would be left trying to pay fifty thousand dollars because of her father's mistakes.

Then he pushed the thought away.

It wasn't his concern.

He had a debt to collect.

And Mallum Raystark always got what he came for.

It was time for work.