Two: The Shadow of Dept

Lillium Roosevelt

After a long, exhausting day in the kitchen, the sharp clatter of pans and the hiss of searing oil had dulled into a rhythmic background hum—familiar, almost soothing. My arms ached, and my legs felt like they’d been carved out of stone. The kitchen, though finally slowing down, still radiated the same sweltering heat, thick with the scent of seared meats, garlic, rosemary, and the lingering sweetness of balsamic glaze. It was a symphony of smells I both loved and loathed, a constant reminder of the hours upon hours I poured into this demanding, unforgiving space.

My knees had long stopped protesting. They were used to the long hours of standing—numb, like the rest of me. I finished plating the last steak of my shift, gently placing a sprig of thyme on top, the smell dancing into my nose. It was a perfect sear, a deep mahogany crust giving way to a tender, rosy interior. I took pride in my work, even now. A small victory in a battlefield of burned sauces and forgotten orders. As I stepped back, I glanced up at the old clock mounted above the dish station. The hour hand had just slipped past the eight, the minute hand steadily ticking toward nine. Relief washed over me in a welcome wave. Another shift survived.

“Alright! A job well done, everyone,” Tom called out from across the kitchen. He yanked off his apron with a dramatic flair and tossed it onto the steel prep table. “Night crew’s coming in—time to let them have their share of the madness,” he added, his tone light but edged with the weariness we all shared. Tom, our head chef, was a master of keeping spirits high, even when the pressure cooker of the kitchen threatened to explode. His words were a signal, a collective exhale shared by everyone in the room.

I sighed, wiping my brow with the back of my hand, leaving a smudge of flour on my forehead before I rang the bell for Rosetta to pick up the plated steak. She appeared moments later with a nod and a quick smile, then whisked the dish away to the customer's table, the sizzle of the perfectly seared meat a tantalizing promise lost to the cacophony of the kitchen. Another order was already printing, another demand for perfection in a city that demanded nothing less.

Without another word, I shuffled off to the locker room, the noise of the kitchen fading behind me. The clatter of pans, the barked orders, the relentless hum of the ventilation system – all of it receded, leaving a blessed silence. The cool air inside hit my skin like a relief, drawing out the last vestiges of the kitchen's oppressive heat. I peeled off my apron, then the white chef's coat, both stiff with the day’s sweat and the lingering scent of garlic and rosemary, and tossed them into the laundry bin in the corner. Another day done. Another day closer to… what, exactly?

My locker creaked as I opened it, the rusty hinges protesting the movement like an old man complaining about the weather. I reached in for my jacket, a well-worn leather bomber that had seen me through countless late nights and early mornings, ready to slide it on and disappear into the night when I heard Tom’s voice behind me.

“Lu.”

He said it gently—low, measured—the kind of tone someone uses when they don’t want to startle you, but still need to be heard. It was the same tone my father used to have when something serious was on his mind, the kind of tone that always preceded bad news or difficult conversations. A cold knot formed in my stomach.

I turned slowly, confused. Tom stood a few feet away, his back to me. He wasn’t moving, just standing there in front of his locker, arms at his sides. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above us, casting soft shadows in the quiet room, amplifying the silence that now felt heavy and pregnant with unspoken words.

“Everything alright, Tom?” I asked, trying to sound normal, but my voice came out uneven. Maybe it was the fatigue—or maybe it was the awkward tension that still lingered from what we had that morning.

He didn’t answer right away. He let out a slow breath, shoulders rising and falling, before turning his head just enough to catch me in the corner of his eye. I braced myself for another lecture, another disappointment radiating from his gaze.

“It wouldn’t sit right with me to let you go home on an empty stomach,” he said, voice lower now, with a warmth that surprised me. It was a stark contrast to the sharp, business-like tone he usually adopted in the kitchen.

Then he turned fully, and I saw it—he was holding a lunch box. Not the generic Tupperware kind, but a proper, old-fashioned lunch box with a little handle. He walked toward me and held it out.

“Take this. For the ride home,” he said, placing it into my hands. “And promise me you’ll eat it. I made it the way you like it—extra pepper on the chicken, garlic rice, and a slice of that lemon tart you like. I even packed the sauce separate so it doesn’t get soggy.”

The weight of the lunch box was substantial, comforting. It was surprisingly cool against my palms. I blinked, thrown off by the gesture. “Tom, you really didn’t have to…”

He cut me off, softly but firmly. “I wanted to.” He gave me a smile—tired but kind. “You look like hell, Lu. Skinny. Worn out. You think I can just ignore that?”

My stomach churned, not with hunger, but with a confusing mix of emotions. Tom had always been professional, demanding, sometimes even bordering on intimidating. I knew he valued my work, but I hadn't expected…this.

I looked down at the box in my hands, my throat tightening. It wasn’t just the food, although the thought of garlic rice and lemon tart made my mouth water. It was the gesture itself, the unexpected act of kindness from someone who treated me like a family. It was the fact that he remembered my preference for extra pepper, that he knew about my little weakness for lemon tart.

“I’ve seen you push yourself too hard every single day. You come in early as you could, leave after dark, and barely touch your own meals. And all for what? To pay off a debt that shouldn’t be yours alone to carry.”

I opened my mouth to protest, to explain, but the words caught in my throat. What was there to say? He already knew the truth. A truth that clawed at me every waking moment.

He held up a hand, stopping me. His voice trembled slightly, then steadied. “You don’t take breaks, you don’t ask for help. You just work. Like your health doesn't matter. Like you don't matter.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut. It wasn't the criticism that stung, but the stark, brutal truth. I had been so focused on the debt, on the responsibility, that I had forgotten to care for myself. Forgotten that I was more than just a machine churning out foods to pay off a burden.

I felt the weight of his words settle over me, and when I looked up again, he was watching me with a tenderness I hadn’t expected.

“Lu,” he said, “You’re like a son to me. Maybe not by blood, but… God, I see the way you carry yourself. I see the weight on your shoulders, and it kills me to see you hurting like this.”

He stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I’d feel miserable—useless—if something happened to you. You’ve given so much to this place, and to everyone around you. So please… let someone do the same for you.”

I didn’t know what to say. Years of ingrained stoicism, of shouldering the burden alone, had left me speechless. The box in my hands felt heavier now—not just with food, but with care. With something I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time.

“…Thank you,” I managed, my voice rough. The sound barely escaped my lips, a pathetic croak that spoke volumes about the exhaustion that had seeped into my bones.

He just nodded. "Eat when you get home. Rest. And tomorrow..." He paused, placing a hand gently on my shoulder, "don't come in early. Take the morning off. That's an order."

The unexpected kindness pierced through the fog in my brain. I’d been working double shifts for weeks, burying myself in the mindless repetition of taking orders and flipping burgers to avoid thinking about… everything. Tom, usually a man of few words and even fewer displays of emotion, had noticed.

I gave a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, and Tom smiled again—wider this time, warmer, like a father proud and relieved all at once. It was a rare sight, a glimpse into the genuine heart hidden beneath his gruff exterior. Then, without warning, he stepped forward and pulled me into a tight embrace. His arms wrapped around me with quiet strength, grounding me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed until that moment. It wasn't a romantic gesture; it was a lifeline. A solid, comforting presence in the swirling vortex of my life. The scent of coffee and old diner grease clung to his worn work shirt, a familiar and strangely reassuring aroma.

“Be careful on your way home, okay?” he said softly, his voice muffled against my shoulder. He lingered in the hug for a second longer before finally pulling back. I nodded, words caught in my throat. The simple act of human contact had unlocked a dam of pent-up emotions.

“Now get your ass outta here and get some sleep,” he added, his gruff tone returning, but the affection was still there, layered beneath the sarcasm. It was Tom’s way of protecting both of us from the vulnerability that had momentarily surfaced. It was his way of saying, "I care, but don't make a big deal out of it."

I let out a chuckle, more from gratitude than humor. “I will. I promise.”

Tom nodded, satisfied, and turned toward the door, the sound of his footsteps echoing faintly off the tile floor. He paused once, glanced over his shoulder, and gave me a final look—one that said more than words could. It was a look of concern, yes, but also of understanding and unwavering support. A silent promise that I wasn't alone. Then he disappeared around the corner.

I exhaled slowly and turned back to my locker. My limbs moved on autopilot as I slung my bag over my shoulder and tugged my jacket on. The scent of the kitchen still clung to me, a mix of spices, oil, and citrus. I didn’t mind it—it reminded me of the life I was trying to build, a life far removed from the one I’d left behind.

I made my way to the back door and pushed it open. The heavy metal groaned as it swung out into the alleyway, and the night air hit me like a wave. Sharp, cold, and biting. I shivered, the chill seeping through my thin jacket.

“Gosh, it’s cold,” I muttered under my breath, pulling my jacket tighter around me. The alley was dimly lit, only a single flickering streetlamp casting long shadows on the damp pavement. Steam curled up from a nearby vent, mixing with the faint smell of rain-soaked concrete and exhaust. This was my nightly ritual, the quick escape route to the relative anonymity of the city streets.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and started walking, my footsteps echoing softly behind me. The city was quieter at this hour, the din of traffic replaced by the distant hum of late-night sirens and the occasional rumble of a passing train. And yet, something about the stillness set me on edge. A prickling sensation on the back of my neck, a feeling of being watched. I told myself it was just fatigue, the residue of a long shift on my feet.

As I turned the corner out of the alley and stepped onto the dimly lit sidewalk, I froze. My breath caught in my throat, the cold air suddenly feeling like ice in my lungs.

Leaning casually against a sleek black car parked under a broken streetlight stood a man I hadn’t seen in a long time—but could never forget. Black leather jacket, dark jeans, tattoos curling up his neck and vanishing beneath his collar. His hair was slightly unkempt, like he'd run a hand through it too many times, suggesting an impatience, a restlessness I knew all too well. And those eyes—sharp, cold, and focused—were locked directly on me. They were the colour of slate on a stormy day, utterly devoid of warmth.

He smiled, lips curling into a slow, knowing smirk. The kind of smile that made your blood run cold, not because it was fake, but because it was real—and dangerous. It was the smile of a predator who had finally cornered his prey. The smile that promised consequences I'd long hoped to escape.

Dominus Vane.

My stomach twisted, and my breath hitched. I felt my heart begin to pound against my ribs, fast and hard. My hands began to tremble, barely noticeable at first—but growing. A familiar, icy dread washed over me, a sensation I hadn't felt in years, not since...

"No... no, not here. Not now," I whispered, the words barely audible even to myself.

He raised a hand and gave me a small, casual wave—lazy, almost mocking. But I knew that wave. That slow, deliberate motion. It wasn’t a greeting. It was a signal. It was a declaration. He had found me.

My eyes darted instinctively around me, desperate to find an escape that didn't exist. The neon lights of the city blurred in my peripheral vision, painting the scene with an unsettling, vibrant anxiety. Each face in the crowd was a potential threat, a silent accomplice in the nightmare about to unfold.

From between the shadows of the crowd beyond the sidewalk, I saw them. Men emerging from the flow of nighttime foot traffic—silent, calculated, all dressed in black. Some were pulling hoods over their heads, their faces swallowed by the darkness. Others kept their hands in their pockets, but their posture betrayed them. They weren’t just bystanders. They were his.

Enforcers.

And judging by the way their jackets bulged slightly at the sides, I could guess what they were carrying.

Guns.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The noise of the city – the car horns, the chattering voices, the distant sirens – all faded into a dull hum, replaced by the deafening roar of my own fear.

I took a step back instinctively, my mouth dry, my legs tense. Every instinct in me screamed to run—but where? The alley behind me was a dead end, littered with overflowing dumpsters and shadowed corners. The streets around me were full of strangers who didn’t even notice what was about to unfold, blissfully ignorant of the danger that had just entered their world.

Dominus didn’t move from his spot. He was across the street, a malevolent silhouette against the city lights. He just stood there, watching me with that same unsettling smirk, like a spider watching a fly caught in the web. Calm. In control. Like he already knew what my next move would be.

And maybe he did. He always had a way of anticipating my actions, of manipulating the situation to his advantage. He had broken me once before, and the memory of that time was a cold, burning brand on my soul.

This was it then. The end of the line. No more running, no more hiding. He had finally caught up.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breathing, but my throat felt like it was closing. The cold air around me thickened with dread, and for a second, I couldn’t feel my feet. Dominus hadn't moved, but his presence was like a weight pressing down on my chest. Heavy. Suffocating.

I forced myself to look at him directly. I couldn’t let him see the fear. Not fully. Not yet. I needed leverage, any leverage, and fear was a weakness Dominus would exploit without hesitation.

“Dominus,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. It still shook. Damn it.

He tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the fact that I dared speak first. The gesture was subtle, almost feline, but it sent a shiver down my spine. “Lu,” he replied, dragging out the syllable like he was tasting it. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

I didn’t answer. Every muscle in my body was tense, coiled for action. I kept my eyes on him but scanned the surrounding shadows in my peripheral vision. Two of his men were closing in from the left, their faces obscured by the gloom, but their intent was crystal clear. Another, larger than the others, was flanking me from the right. The rest were keeping their distance, forming a loose perimeter, a silent, watchful audience.

Dominus pushed off from the car and took a few steps forward. His boots echoed on the pavement, slow and deliberate, each sound a hammer blow against my resolve. The stench of exhaust fumes mingled with the metallic tang of blood that I could almost taste. The streetlight flickered once above him before going out entirely, plunging us deeper into the gloom. The darkness felt deliberate, a stage set for a performance with only one possible ending.

“I’ve been patient,” he continued, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The casual gesture did nothing to mask the underlying threat. “Told myself, ‘Give the kid time. He’ll come around. He’s smart. He knows better than to run.’” He paused, his gaze unwavering, ice-cold. “But running, Lu, is such a… waste of time.”

My fists clenched in my jacket pockets. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, a dull roar that threatened to drown out the background noise of the bustling city street.

“But then I hear you’re still playing kitchen boy, still pretending that debt just disappeared. Like you didn’t owe me.” The last words were laced with a venomous sweetness that made my skin crawl.

I felt my jaw tighten. “I didn’t forget, that's why I'm working so I could pay you back,” I said quietly. The words were truthful, but they felt weak even to my own ears. Every extra shift I pulled, every late night I spent prepping ingredients, was all in the name of finally settling that score.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, laughing under his breath. The sound was low and grating, like nails on a chalkboard. “You’re out here slicing steaks and playing dress-up while I’m stuck cleaning up your mess. You know how many strings I pulled just to earn that kind of money right, Lu?”

He stepped even closer. Too close now. The scent of his cologne and stale cigarettes filled my nostrils, suffocating me. I could see the scar beneath his left eye—the one I remembered from years ago, the one I gave him. The fight had been a blur of adrenaline and desperation, a desperate attempt to claw my way out of the hole I was digging. It had faded, but never fully disappeared, just like the history between us.

“I promise,” I said, my voice barely more than breath. “I’ll pay you back. I just need more time.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. Then that smile crept back onto his face—cold and deliberate, a predator’s grin. “Time, huh? Well, Lu, time is money, and you’re running out of both.”

"Please..." I beg, my voice shaky. The single word hung in the air, a pathetic plea in the face of his imposing presence.

He stared at me, amused. A slow, cruel smile played on his lips, softening the hard lines of his face just enough to be deceptive. "I like you begging, but no," he said quietly, almost gently. "I want my money now, Lu."

A beat of silence passed. My heart pounded against my ribs like it was trying to escape. The air between us was thick, heavy with unspoken history – deals made, debts incurred, and promises broken.

"But I don't have it," I said, barely managing to keep the fear out of my voice. "Not yet." The 'yet' was a flimsy shield, a desperate clutching at the hope of a miracle. I had gambled, and I had lost. Badly.

Dominus chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated in his throat. It was a sound devoid of humor, a predatory rumble that promised pain. His eyes, the color of polished obsidian, never left mine. They held an unnerving intensity, reading my every flicker of fear, every tremor of desperation. He knew I was cornered. He enjoyed it.

"Then I guess," he murmured, "you know what's gonna happen next... right?"

Before I could move, he reached out and grabbed my face—one hand gripping my cheek tightly, fingers digging into my skin. I flinched, but didn’t pull away. I knew better. Showing fear would only feed him. He was a predator, and fear was the scent that drew him in for the kill.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. The air in the warehouse was thick with the smell of dust and decay, mirroring the rot that had taken root in my life since I'd gotten mixed up with these people.

His gaze was unblinking now, locked onto mine with terrifying calm. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, promising a downpour of pain. There was no heat, no anger, just a chilling, detached curiosity. It was worse than rage.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice low and serious, “what punishment do you prefer?”

My breath caught. He wasn’t being rhetorical. He wanted me to say it. To choose my own suffering. The sheer audacity of it stole the air from my lungs. It was a power play, a demonstration of his absolute control. He wanted me to participate in my own destruction.

“I don’t—” I started, but he cut me off.

“No?” His thumb pressed into my cheekbone, hard enough to hurt. A sharp, localized pain blossomed, a stark reminder of the physical power he held over me. “Not even a guess? A few broken fingers? Something with a knife?” He smiled again, this one closer to a sneer. It stretched his lips thin and showed a flash of teeth, predatory and cruel. “Or maybe I pay your little boss man a visit, hmm? Tom, was it?”

A jolt of panic ran through me, cold and sharp. Tom was a good man, trusting and kind, and he deserved none of this.

“Don’t touch him,” I snapped, louder than I meant to. The sound echoed around the place, a desperate plea lost in the vastness.

Dominus didn’t move for a moment. His fingers remained on my face, but his expression shifted—just slightly. Interest. The storm clouds in his eyes flickered with a strange light. He’d found the weak spot, and he knew it.

“I see,” he said slowly, the words dripping with a dangerous understanding. “That struck a nerve.”

He finally let go of my face, his hand dropping with deliberate ease, like the scene had lost its thrill. He stepped back a pace, smoothed his jacket, and pulled out a cigarette. The sharp click of his lighter echoed in the silence between us. A moment later, a dull orange glow lit up his face as he inhaled, his eyes never leaving mine.

The first exhale curled lazily through the cold night air. He savored the silence, the tension, the power of it all.

“You don’t get to decide the timeline anymore, Lu,” he said, voice calm—too calm. It was the kind of calm that preceded a storm, the eye of a hurricane. “I’ve been generous. Patient. Merciful, even.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “But mercy has its limits. And guess what?”

He stepped forward again, just enough to be within striking distance, his voice lowering. I could smell the familiar scent of his cologne, a sharp, intoxicating blend of sandalwood and something metallic, something dangerous.

“Now it’s overdue.”

He took another drag, and when he exhaled this time, it was like smoke from a fuse burning down. The red tip of the cigarette flared, mirroring the light in his eyes. Then his gaze hardened, the playful cruelty replaced by a chilling resolve.

“Now run.”

The words didn’t explode—they landed like a verdict. Cold. Final. They hung in the air, heavier than the smoke, more suffocating than the fear that had been building inside me for years.

I didn’t move. My feet were rooted to the grimy pavement, my mind a whirlwind of panicked calculations. Run where? Hide where? He’d find me. He always found me.

“Lu,” he said, his tone darkening. It wasn’t a request anymore. It was a command, laced with a threat so potent it made my bones ache. "I said run."