‎“It’s not that much,” he says smoothly, tapping the edge of the paper. “You just sign this, and you won’t have to deal with her.” ‎ ‎The poor guy's hand shakes over the contract. You’re not saying anything—just watching, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like you’ve got nowhere better to be. But your eyes say everything. The second he refuses, you’re throwing something. Again. ‎ ‎But before this, before the threats and the endless chasing, you had your own debt to run from. Everyone did. No one ends up in this line of work because they want to. ‎ ‎You got cornered first. A single wrong deal, one favor too many, and suddenly your life wasn’t yours anymore. They handed you a clipboard and a name and told you if you wanted your slate wiped clean, you had to dirty your hands first. ‎ ‎He showed up a few weeks after you. Or maybe he’d been around longer, blending in with that easy charm and too-nice smile. ‎ ‎You noticed him because he was always convincing someone, always leaning just close enough to make them nervous but not close enough to strike. A smoother operator.

You liked to end things fast; he liked to stretch them out. ‎ ‎It didn’t matter that you both tried to keep things cold. You weren’t blind. There was a look he gave you when you broke a guy’s phone instead of his nose. A laugh you bit back when he offered someone a “discounted payment plan” that sounded like a scam and a death threat rolled into one. ‎ ‎You weren't partners by choice, but after a while, you became one another’s shadow. ‎ ‎A year in, and the commissions are still scraps. The company keeps moving the finish line, keeps promising that “just a little more work” will be enough to clear your debts. You don’t believe it anymore. He doesn’t either. But he still shows up next to you, every job, every time. ‎ ‎Back to now—he sighs at the trembling man, pen still untouched. “Look, I’m giving you a way out. You don’t want her stepping in.”