Episode 2: The Corner of Fifth and Main
1145 Words
Unknown Number: Fifth and Main. 2 PM. Alone.
Ariella stared at the message until the screen dimmed, then tapped it awake again. Same words. Same blunt demand. No signature. No explanation.
She slid the phone into her coat pocket and locked the workshop door behind her.
The street outside smelled of rain and hot metal. Traffic crawled past, tires hissing against damp asphalt. She walked the three blocks to Fifth and Main with measured steps, counting storefronts, watching reflections in windows instead of faces.
The corner opened into a small concrete plaza framed by a flickering streetlamp and a boarded-up café. Pigeons scattered as a bus roared through, leaving behind diesel fumes and grit. She chose a spot beneath the lamp and stopped.
Someone stood across the street near a convenience store. Hands empty. No purchase. He stared at the glass door like he was waiting for permission to move.
Ariella shifted her stance so the light hit her face and her shadow stretched behind her. Visibility was leverage. Paper tore when mishandled. People did too.
“You came.”
The voice came from behind her. Close. Calm.
She did not turn. “You said Fifth and Main. Not ambush.”
A pause.
“I wanted to see if you’d scan first,” he said. “You did.”
She turned.
Damian looked different in daylight. No suit. Dark jacket worn soft at the elbows. Open collar. Smoke clung to him, sharp and spiced. Clove cigarettes. His left hand stayed buried in his pocket. His right held a folded document, edges softened by use.
“You followed me,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Say it like it’s normal.”
“For me, it is.”
She stepped back, then stopped. Distance invited pursuit.
“You said alone,” she said. “Your observer across the street missed that memo.”
Damian’s gaze flicked once.
“He’s not mine,” he said. “If he were, he’d already be closer.”
The man near the store shifted and finally looked at them, eyes narrowing as the folded paper changed hands.
Ariella’s jaw tightened. “You dragged me into surveillance theater without asking.”
“I brought you because you don’t panic,” Damian said. “You inventory.”
“I panic later.”
“That still works.”
He extended the folded paper. “Look.”
She took it.
The paper was thick. Expensive. Cotton-heavy. She unfolded it carefully, eyes moving before her hands did. Scripted text. Dates. Signatures. Her thumb brushed the ink, paused, then tilted the page toward the streetlamp.
Wrong.
Her fingers stopped.
“This isn’t real,” she said.
Damian stilled. “Explain.”
“Iron gall ink feathers over time,” she said. “This sits on top. Someone forced the aging. Heat. Chemicals.”
Across the street, the man pushed off the wall.
“He’s clocked it,” Ariella said. “He wants the paper.”
Damian swore. He shifted his weight and hissed—quick, sharp, involuntary.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
“Not enough.”
The man crossed the street, pace steady now, eyes fixed on the document.
“You said alone,” she said. “You lied.”
“I underestimated how fast he’d commit,” Damian said. “That’s on me.”
Ariella folded the contract. “You brought me to verify a lie.”
“I brought you to break it.”
“That’s not better.”
“It is if it keeps you breathing.”
Her laugh came out sharp. “You have a strange definition of help.”
“Stay with me,” Damian said. “Don’t bolt.”
“Don’t order me.”
He leaned closer. “Then don’t do anything reckless.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a slim metal tool. A burnisher. Polished steel, narrow edge.
Damian’s eyes dropped to it. “What are you doing?”
“Changing the value.”
She dragged the tool across the edge of the contract.
The sound cut through the plaza. Wrong. Loud. Paper crying.
The man froze.
Ariella tore off a corner of the page. Clean. Final.
The man cursed and lunged forward.
Damian grabbed Ariella’s wrist and pulled her with him. Pain buckled his step this time, visible, undeniable. He recovered fast, but she felt it. She slowed just enough to keep him upright as they cut through traffic, horns blaring, then ducked into an alley that smelled of rust, damp cardboard, and old rain.
They stopped behind a dumpster. Breath loud. Too close.
For a second, Damian didn’t let go.
Then he released her and stepped back.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have forced my hand,” she said. “Now I’m marked.”
“Yes,” he said. “Which means the forgery matters.”
He reached into his jacket, hesitated, then pulled out his phone instead. He unlocked it and turned the screen toward her.
A photo.
A hospital admission form.
Her father’s name at the top.
Cold flooded her hands. Her vision tunneled, the alley blurring at the edges. She swallowed once, hard, and forced her eyes to stay on the screen.
“What is this,” she said.
“I froze his debt this morning,” Damian said. “Emergency admission gives me temporary authority. I used it.”
“You went to the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“You planned this.”
“Yes.”
Silence pressed in, broken only by traffic bleeding into the alley mouth.
“And if I had refused?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
Ariella nodded once. “That contract,” she said. “Who benefits?”
“A family that doesn’t like losing,” Damian said. “If they think it’s real, they come for me. If they learn it’s fake, they look for who proved it.”
“Me.”
“You,” he said.
“Say please.”
His mouth twitched. His grip tightened briefly on the torn contract.
“Help me,” he said. “And your father walks out owing nothing.”
“And if I don’t?”
Damian stepped closer. “Then the lie stands. And the man who followed us decides what you’re worth.”
Ariella met his gaze and held it.
“Next time,” she said, “you tell me the stakes upfront.”
“There won’t be a next time like this.”
“Don’t promise what you can’t control.”
Something shifted in his face. He didn’t hide it fast enough.
“You’re not wrong,” he said.
Ariella turned and walked out of the alley without looking back.
Behind her, Damian stayed where he was, weight off one leg, the torn contract clenched in his hand, staring at the empty mouth of the alley
- Writer
