Lyara's POV

Time lapse: A month and a few days late.

Lyara's POV.

The fluorescent light above the 24/7 Corner Mart buzzed like an angry wasp. 

It was 3:03 am, and my feet already hurt.  

I adjusted the red vest over my second-hand hoodie, tucking the tag under so no one saw the frayed hem. The name tag said Lia. Not Lyara. Lia was easier. 

“Lia! Register two needs a refill on the Slurpees!” Maya’s voice crackled through the walkie-talkie. 

“On it,” I muttered, forcing my legs to move.

Five weeks. Five weeks of 11 pm to 7 am shifts. The only job that didn’t ask for a home address on the application. The only job that looked at my empty resume and didn’t laugh.

Two weeks ago, I buried my mother alone in a county plot. My last $347 went to the cheapest casket they had. No flowers. No priest. Just me, the rain, and a shovel.

Now I have $42 and a baby due in weeks.

Survive. That’s it. Just survive.

The break room door creaked open. Jamal, the morning shift guy, leaned against the frame with a grin and two styrofoam cups of coffee. He should be home sleeping now, but he'd never leave just to cover for my break ever since he found out about my condition.

“Hey, Lia. You good?” He asked, sliding a cup toward me. “You’ve been on your feet since you clocked in.”

I took the coffee even though caffeine made my nausea worse. “I’m fine, Jamal. Just… tired.”

He didn’t buy it. No one does. My eyes are sunken, my hands are always shaking, and I am pregnant, with nowhere to sleep except the thin mattress in the back of the break room.  

“You know you can take a break now, right?” Jamal said, nodding at the clock. “It’s 3 am. The store’s dead. Nobody’s buying anything but energy drinks and condoms at this hour.”

I hesitated. The last time I took a break, the manager caught me dozing in the chair. Gave me a warning. One more and I’d be out. And if I’m out, there is no apartment. No prenatal clinic. Nothing.

But my bladder was screaming. I hadn’t peed since 10 pm because the public restroom outside had a lock that didn’t work, and I wasn’t using the one inside until it was empty.

Jamal must’ve seen the pinch in my face. His smile softened. “Go, Lia. Seriously. You’re pregnant. You can’t be holding your pee for hours. That’s how you get infections. And infections cost money you don’t have.”

I blinked. He noticed.

“Thanks,” I whispered. “Five minutes.”

“Take ten,” he said. “I registered one. If the manager asks, I didn’t see you.”

I managed a small smile. “You’ll get fired.”

“So will you if you pass out and crack your head on the freezer,” he shot back. “Go.”

The staff restroom was at the end of the hallway, past the cold storage and the dumpster exit. The hallway smelled like bleach and old meat.

I pushed the door open, flipped the lock, and let out a shaky breath I didn’t know I was holding.

When I came out, the hallway was silent. Too silent.

I rounded the corner toward the dumpster exit, wiping my hands on my pants.

That’s when I heard it.

Voices. Low. Angry. Coming from behind the dumpster.

I froze.

“You sure that's the right spot?” One man hissed. “If security sees us—”

“Security does rounds at 3:30. It’s 3:05 now. We got twenty-five minutes,” the other replied. “Just dump the body, and we’re done.”

Body.

My blood turned to ice.

I pressed my back flat against the cold concrete wall. My heart hammered so hard.

My hands were trembling. I fumbled in my hoodie pocket for my phone. The screen felt slick in my sweaty palm.

I didn’t think. I just hit a record.

The phone shook in my grip as I angled it around the corner, just enough to catch their silhouettes. Two men in black hoodies. One holding a duffel bag that was… moving.

The first man laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. “Victor Ashworth’s gonna lose his mind when they find a corpse on the Ashworth Heights site tomorrow morning. Police shutdown. Project delayed. Stock tanks by noon.”

“A rival developer is paying us fifty grand each,” the second man said. “Cheap buyout if his shares drop enough.”

Ashworth Heights. The biggest real estate project in the city—Victor Ashworth’s legacy.

“Who hired us?” The second man asked.

The first man zipped the duffel. “Doesn’t matter who. Money’s money. Victor thinks he owns this city. We’ll see how he feels when the cops swarm his site.”

I held my breath.

One wrong sound and they’d see me. Pregnant, broke, and about to be the next thing in that duffel bag.

The minutes dragged. My legs burned from crouching. The baby shifted inside me like it could feel my terror.

Don’t make a sound. Just record. Just record.

Finally, a car engine rumbled outside. The two men hauled the duffel into the trunk and slammed it shut.

“Let’s get out of here before—”

I didn’t move for a full minute. My chest felt like it was going to explode.

When I was sure they were gone, I stood up. My knees buckled, and I caught myself on the wall.

The phone was still recording. I hit stop. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

What do I do? What do I do?

Call the police? They’d ask for my name. My address. I didn’t have one. They’d ask why I was here at 3 am. I’d lose this job.

But if I didn’t say anything… a man could be dead. And Victor Ashworth’s entire company could collapse.

I stared at the phone in my hand. The video was a minute and 32 seconds long. Two men. A duffel bag. A plan to frame Victor Ashworth.

Victor Ashworth. The man who owned half the skylines of Sterling City. The man whose company could hire a thousand lawyers.

And me? I was Lia from the corner store. The woman who slept on a mattress in a break room because she couldn’t afford a $600 studio.

I leaned against the wall, sliding down until I was sitting on the cold floor—the concrete bit through my jeans.

I looked down at my stomach. Flat under the hoodie. But there was a life in there. A life that needed food. Shelter. A mother who wasn’t in jail or dead.

I couldn’t be a hero. Heroes got killed. Heroes got arrested.

But I couldn’t just… walk away either.

The room door opened. Jamal stuck his head out. “Lia? You good?”

I quickly shoved the phone into my pocket and forced myself to stand. My legs felt like jelly.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Just… stomach cramps.”

Jamal frowned. “You look pale. You sure you don’t want me to call—”

“No!” The word came out sharper than I meant it. I softened it with a weak smile. “No, I’m okay. Really. Just need some water.”

He studied me for a second, then nodded. “Okay. But if you faint, I’m carrying you to the hospital myself. And I’m telling the manager you’re pregnant so he stops riding you about breaks.”

I managed a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “Deal.”

I walked back toward him, each step feeling like I was carrying concrete.

The phone in my pocket felt heavy. Dangerous.

If I go to the police, I lose everything. If I don’t… someone dies.

Jamal’s voice followed me down the hallway. “And Lia? Drink water! Dehydration’s bad for the baby!”

I didn’t turn around.

I just clutched the phone tighter. The wealthiest man in the city is going to be ruined tomorrow, unless I stop it.