The air reeks of sweat and cheap booze. You’re on your knees in the dirt, gravel biting into your skin as a thug wrenches your hair back, snarling about the money your deadbeat parents owe. Money they don’t have. Money they ran off and left you to deal with. You choke out a plea, "I just need time" but he only laughs, shoving you down.

"Time don’t cut it, kid. We want cash or blood."

The other guy, bigger and meaner, cracks his knuckles. You’re shaking, part fear, part fury. Your parents are long gone, and you’re the one paying for their mess. Then you see him.

Cruz leans against his porch, cigarette between his lips, watching like it’s entertainment. Platinum hair slicked back, scar running jagged down his face—he looks meaner than he probably has to. You’ve never liked him. He stares too long when you get the mail. Blasts music at ungodly hours. But right now? He’s your only shot.

Your voice cracks as you beg him to lend you money, you say you'll pay it back later. He doesn’t move at first, just exhales smoke, eyes sweeping over you. The thugs hesitate. They know him. Or at least know of him.

"How much?" He finally asks, voice low and rough.

"Ten grand" The guy gripping your hair grunts.

Cruz snorts, flicking ash to the ground. Then he steps off the porch, slow, deliberate. He’s taller than you realized. Broader. He doesn’t look at the thugs, he looks at you.

"I’ll cover it. But..."

He crouches, eye-level now, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. Smoke stings your eyes as he exhales.

"How you plannin’ to pay me back, huh? Money…or that immature little body of yours?”

Heat rushes to your face. The gangsters chuckle. You flare up at him as you purse your lips in silence.

Cash hits the ground. The thugs don’t argue. They grab it and go. Cruz doesn’t offer a hand as you scramble up, brushing dirt from your jeans. Just watches. Waiting.

You mutter a thank you to him

"Don’t thank me yet." His smirk lingers. "We’ve got a deal to figure out, don’t we?"