CONTRACTED TO DIEON MAFIA KING

Chapter 1: Candy Pays in Pieces 3:12 AM. Aru, Sweden is -14°C. My breath fogs, then dies. My fingers don’t. They’re too busy counting. Crumpled 200-kronor notes. A few 500s. Coins that bite my palm. Under a flickering streetlight, behind The Demons’ club. $1,640 tonight. Good night. Pathetic night. I stuff the cash into my boot, between sock and skin. Safest place I know. The alley reeks of piss, vodka, and smoke that clings for days. Snow falls sideways, needling my cheeks. My coat has tape patches on the sleeves. I don’t feel the cold anymore. Cold stops hurting after your third winter alone. Footsteps on ice. Measured. Unhurried. I don’t look up. I know that walk. Heavy. Confident. A man who’s never had to run. “Late again, Candy.” A knife slides under my jaw before I finish turning. Cold steel kissing skin. Skull tattoo on his neck, ink stretched over tendons. The Demons’ collector. Two weeks now. Same time. Same demand. “How much?” My voice doesn’t shake. I trained it not to. At 19, I cried when the blade came out. At 20, I learned tears cost extra. “$8,000,” he says. The blade presses deeper. A thin line of heat blooms. “Daily. Boss says eight thousand every night you work. Or we take a finger.” $8,000. Every night. My blood turns to ice. I made $1,640 tonight. $1,500 yesterday. Best night last month was $2,100. Eight thousand daily is $240,000 a month. The interest on my parents’ 12 million dollar debt is $180,000. He’s not collecting. He’s drowning me. “I don’t have it,” I lie. I do. All of it, folded in my boot. “Then boss takes collateral,” he smiles. The knife slides a fraction deeper. Warm trickle down my throat. “Seven days grace ended last week.” I kneel in the snow and pull the bills out. All $1,640. I count them one by one. Each note feels like peeling skin off my body. Rent. Food. The line between surviving and breaking. “Here,” I say, holding the damp stack up. “Everything. Please. Just take it.” He snatches it. Counts fast. Eyes narrow. “$1,640, Candy. Not eight thousand.” “I know,” I say flat. No begging. Begging makes it worse. “Tomorrow I’ll bring more. Extra shifts. I’ll—” He pockets the money. Then his other hand moves. A backhand across my cheek. Not hard enough to break bone. Just enough to rattle teeth. My cheek stings. Ears ring. “Boss said eight thousand daily,” he leans in. Breath of cigarettes and metal. Blood, maybe. “You bring less tomorrow, we don’t want money. We want pieces. Pinky first. Nobody misses it. Then an eye.” He wipes the knife on his jacket. “Seven days, Candy. Then we stop asking.” He walks into the dark. Boots crunch snow, then fade. Swallowed by wind and empty streets. I stay kneeling until my legs stop shaking. Until the blood on my throat dries. Until cold stops being something I feel and becomes something I am. Nobody comes. Nobody ever does. I stand. Knees pop. Walk home, boots breaking ice. Aru is silent. Just wind, a distant truck, my own breathing. Too loud. Too alive. My building is four floors of cracked concrete, paint peeling like old skin. No elevator. No safety. I climb to the fourth floor. Unlock three bolts. Loud in the quiet. Inside: one room. Mattress on the floor. Mini stove, one burner. Wobbling table. One chair with a short leg. Bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. I drop my coat. Wet sound. Snow and alley dirt. My eyes sweep the room. Water stain in the corner. Crack in the wall like lightning. Second-hand chair from the street. And the portrait. My parents. Mom laughing off-camera. Dad’s arm around her, crooked smile, eyes bright with hope that kills you. Disgust twists my face. Not at the room. At them. At me. At ghosts that live here rent-free. I sigh. Then I do something stupid. I jump. Arms out. One spin. Like I was eight and the world was light and math homework was the worst thing. I land hard. Springs groan. Dust puffs up. For one second I’m weightless. Not Candy. Not 12 million in debt. Not the cleaner. Just Candancy, spinning in a room that didn’t smell like desperation. Then gravity remembers me. Mattress dips. Springs bite. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Then at the portrait. The last photo taken before they gambled their lives on a card game with The Demons. Hot tears burn my skin. I don’t make a sound. Haven’t since the funeral. Sound is weakness. Sound gets you noticed. My stomach growls. Violent. Animal. I sit up and glare at my belly like it betrayed me. “I gave all the money today,” I say out loud. Voice raw. “There’s nothing for us.” My belly growls again. Hollow. Angry. Tears come harder. I pull the thin blanket over my head and cry until my throat hurts and my eyes burn and there’s nothing left but dry emptiness. Then sleep takes me. Heavy. Dreamless. --- 6:00 AM. Alarm screams. Cheap ringtone drilling my skull. I roll over. Face into the mattress. For thirty seconds I pretend the world isn’t real. Pretend $8,000 disappears if I ignore it. Pretend my parents are alive and I only worry about class. Then reality hits. DIEONS Tower. 7 AM shift. Late = fired. Fired = blacklisted in Aru. Blacklisted = The Demons take a finger tonight. I sit up too fast. Room spins. Black spots dance. Bathroom is a corner behind a curtain. Bucket toilet. Dripping tap. Cracked sink. I wash my face with water so cold it steals breath. Brush teeth with the last bit of paste. Pull my red hair back tight. No strand escapes. Escape means mess. Mess means notice. Uniform on. Navy blue, two sizes too big. Gloves. Shoes resoled three times. 6:50 AM. Keys. ID card. Run. No breakfast. No food. Just empty noodles and salt. Outside, I flag a taxi. Old Volvo, rusted doors, heater that works when it feels like it. Driver looks half asleep. “The DIEONS,” I say flat. Drivers talk. Talking costs. He nods. Meter starts. 45 kronor. Aru wakes up. Snowplows scrape. Bakeries smell of bread. People with coffee and lives that don’t start with a knife under their jaw. I watch through the window. DIEONS Tower rises downtown, 60 floors of glass and steel. Richest family in Sweden. Cars, perfume, diamonds. Guns too, but that’s a whisper. 6:58 AM. I pay with coins. 20 kronor left. That’s lunch. If I don’t eat, that’s $8,000 closer. Math grinds in my head always. I don’t use the front entrance. Cleaners use the back. Service door, metal, painted grey, cold enough to stick to skin. Swipe ID. Green light. Beep. In. Service corridor smells like bleach and old coffee. Boots echo. A pipe drips. Fluorescent lights buzz, casting everything sickly white. This is my world, 7 AM to 5 PM. Invisible. Silent. Efficient. Then I see her. Mrs. Smith. Around thirty. Senior cleaner. Five years here. She taught me which floors to mop first and how to make glass shine. Two kids at home. Husband drives buses. She always saves me bread from her lunch. She’s on a plastic crate by the lockers, shoulders shaking. Tears cut through her makeup. Uniform jacket crumpled like she ripped it off in anger. My steps slow. Don’t get involved, I learned. Involved people get hurt. But Mrs. Smith gave me lunch last winter when I fainted. Debt works both ways. I walk fast, heels clicking. “M-mrs. Smith,” I keep my voice low. Supervisor’s office is down the hall. “What’s wrong?” She looks up. Eyes red. Mascara in black streaks. Mouth opens, closes. “I got fired,” she chokes. Then cries harder, like saying it made it real. The word hits like ice water. Fired. In DIEONS Tower, “fired” means blacklisted. Stils, the owner’s father, keeps the list. One word from him and no company in Aru hires you. No cleaning. No retail. Nothing. And The Demons want $8,000 tonight. I stare at Mrs. Smith’s tears on the concrete I’m supposed to mop. At her ID card snapped in half on the floor. I’m one mistake away from being her. One spilled glass. One late clock-in. One night of $7,900 instead of $8,000.