Chapter 1: Money Made People Do All Sorts of Things
The train was moving like it was tired of itself, the carriage rattling and groaning, the sound a low, steady complaint that vibrated right up through the cheap plastic seat into Elijah's spine. He lit another cigarette, ignoring the old sticker warning against it, and watched the grey cityscape crawl past the window. The smoke curled out slowly, much like his own patience—worn thin but steady. His mind ticked like a broken cash register, tallying costs even now.
The light was dying out there, weak yellow sunlight filtered through glass that looked like it hadn't seen a cleaner since the train was built, and that suited the mood just fine. Everything felt used up, worn down.
Elijah Trinity Miller—sixteen, ten fingers, ten toes, and, apparently, a freshman with a cheating girlfriend—took a slow drag. He was calm. Almost bored.
It had taken him three weeks of effort, of carefully modulated compliments and that weary, detached confidence he'd learned to mimic, to get Chloe to say yes. Three weeks of acting like a decent guy when his internal wiring was something closer to a broken cash register, always tallying up the cost.
And now, she'd gone and messed it up. He'd seen her tucked away in the musty darkness of the auditorium backstage with Mark, a junior whose face looked perpetually surprised, all hands and clumsy guilt.
Any other sixteen-year-old would be sobbing, or maybe plotting an extremely stupid revenge that involved fire or social media. But Elijah just let the smoke trail out slowly. Why cry? Why break something he'd put work into?
Girlfriend status. That was the commodity. The social insulation. The proof of concept. If she cheated, that just meant the terms and conditions needed rewriting, not cancellation. The costs had changed, that was all.
He wouldn't spend a dime on her now. He'd wear a condom—definitely a condom. And if she needed cash for something, it was now an explicit trade. No love, just sex.
She was probably back at the school now, thinking she'd gotten away with it, blissfully unaware that the contract had been revised in her absence, weighted heavily against her.
And if Mark—the idiot—became an issue, well, the city had plenty of quiet spots. That was just practical risk management.
He shifted, the dull throb of the train making his head feel heavy, and his eyes drifted toward the back corner of the carriage. It was an awkward, overlooked space, shielded by a stack of luggage and a dirty support pillar.
There was movement there. And sound, almost lost beneath the engine's drone.
He didn't need to actively search, but the sight still felt forced upon him—something you see because you're tired and your guard is down.
A man, maybe early thirties, face obscured by shadow and the angle, had an Asian girl pressed hard against the corner wall. She was small, wearing the grey skirt and white blouse of their school uniform although her school uniform's skirt was unusually short, the fabric frayed and revealing more skin than regulation allowed, the Eleventh Grade designation barely visible beneath the crumpling. Her shoulders were shaking, a desperate, silent struggle.
Elijah didn't feel a spike of adrenaline or moral panic. He felt observation. The rice had been cooked, as the saying went. The damage was done. If he played hero now, he'd just be adding two more variables to an already concluded equation—a bloody nose for him and a public spectacle for her.
The trauma was already set in stone, a dark, heavy thing that would follow her off this train regardless of the next five minutes. Why make a hero of himself?
He watched for another moment, the scene feeling less like an assault and more like a grim fact of this part of the city. Then, his eyes narrowed, focusing not on the struggle, but on the Assailant's bulky coat pocket.
Self-interest was a hell of a motivator. The guy was occupied, distracted by the raw, focused exertion of his act. That kind of focus was a vulnerability.
Elijah slipped the cigarette from his lips and tucked it behind his ear. The movement was fluid, quiet, drawing no attention from the five or six other weary passengers—a mother staring at her phone, two men arguing quietly about a football game. Nobody cared. This neighborhood had long stopped pretending to care.
He moved with a slow, almost casual gait, leaning against the seat backs as the train swayed. He was close enough now to smell the stale, hot breath of the man, the faint metallic scent of fear, and the cheap cologne.
The girl's eyes were wide, darting, wet, fixed on the man's shoulder. She hadn't seen Elijah yet.
He didn't pause. His hand dipped, not into his own pocket, but into the man's coat. He extracted the worn leather wallet and a heavy, slightly cracked smartphone in one quick, practiced motion. His eyes scanned the wallet in the periphery. Cash—a decent, thick roll of it. He thumbed the bills out, fast.
He didn't need the credit cards, the IDs, or the guilt that came with them. He shoved the emptied wallet back into the pocket, keeping only the currency and the phone.
Risk taken, reward collected.
That was when the Assailant noticed. A shift in the weight of his coat, the rustle of fabric. He broke focus, turning his head sharply, a flicker of panic and confusion cutting through the haze of his desire.
The girl saw the shift, saw Elijah standing there. Her eyes—dark, terrified—flickered with a desperate, frantic hope.
Elijah didn't look at her. Ignoring her, he locked eyes with the man, holding the phone like a loaded gun. He let the threat speak for itself. He didn't raise his voice, just dropped it low, almost into the man's ear over the engine noise.
"Do what you are doing and let me do mine if you don't want to get caught."
The man froze, his face cycling through anger, confusion, and then a horrible, cold comprehension. Exposure. Jail. Loss of everything.
He realized he was being robbed by a ghost, a sixteen-year-old kid who saw an opportunity in human misery. The man's eyes flicked to the phone in Elijah's hand, then to the girl's face—the ultimate witness.
He swallowed hard, a sound that cracked in the heavy air. His shoulders slumped infinitesimally. He had to choose between his current exertion and his freedom. He didn't have to think twice.
The girl's hope died right there, a tiny, sick thing that went out like a damp match. Her eyes widened further, not in fear of the man, but in disbelief at Elijah, who was standing there, the money heavy in his fist, silently witnessing the rest.
The man understood Elijah's demand implicitly. He shifted his stance, turning the girl's face back into the metal wall with renewed aggression. He moved faster now, his movements stripped of any lingering perverted pleasure and replaced only with desperation to finish and flee.
The rhythmic slapping sounds were sharper, punctuated by the girl's choked, guttural whimpers trapped against the damp, grimy paint. The assault ended within seconds, brutal and efficient.
Stumbling backwards, the man hastily cinched his belt, his hands trembling violently. His breath came in ragged gasps as he wiped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat.
The train slowed, the brakes hissing a tired relief. This was the man's stop. He spared one frantic, hate-filled glance at Elijah, then blended into the anonymity of the platform.
Elijah watched him go, then turned his gaze back to the girl.
She was still pressed against the corner, head tucked down, shoulders shaking violently, the front of her uniform shirt wet. He could see the dark, wet patch on the floor, the mixed fluids pooling slightly under her. It was grim, messy.
The silence that followed weighed heavy, broken only by the faint trembling of her shoulders. The train's drone swallowed the moment, but the damage marked them both forever.
He reached into the pile of bills he'd taken. He peeled off half the stack, a little over sixty thousand, and tossed it toward her. It fluttered down near her trembling hand.
"That wouldn't make you lose out entirely," he muttered, not sure if he was talking to her or to his own sense of dark accounting.
She didn't move. She just continued that horrible, silent shuddering, her whole body convulsed by the sobs she was refusing to let out loudly.
The sound, or lack thereof, started to irritate him. It was an inefficient use of space.
"Shut up," he snapped, the low tone hardening. "Seriously, what did you expect for wearing such short clothes in this crime infused town? You're making a scene."
She finally moved, her head lifting slowly. Her eyes were swollen, red, but there was a sharp, dangerous sliver of black hate aimed directly at him. She hated the Assailant, sure, but the hatred in her glare for Elijah—the witness, the robber, the moral cashier—was far purer.
Elijah gave a dry, humorless snicker. "Look at you, all dignity and anger. Emotions are for the rich, kid. Feelings don't pay bills, and they sure don't save your skin out here. You should know that by now." He reached down, pulling a few crumpled tissues from his own pocket, leftovers from a school vending machine snack, and shoved them toward her face.
"Clean up before anybody comes and thinks you were a slut selling yourself on a train."
She didn't take them. She brought her free hand up, fast and desperate, and slapped the tissues away, her strength surprising him for a second.
The audacity.
Elijah reacted instantly, not with anger, but with cold, reflexive control. His hand shot out, not a wild punch, but a sharp, open-handed slap across her cheek. The sound was sharp, cutting through the engine's drone.
Her head snapped back. She froze, the remaining rage crushed under the shock of the double assault.
"I said clean up," Elijah repeated, his voice dangerously low. "Now. Don't waste my time."
The girl stared at him for a long, silent beat, a fresh wave of tears blurring her vision. She made no move to fight back. She only looked down, located the tissues on the floor, and began to wipe her face and the front of her uniform, trembling silently.
When she was done, she used the wall to push herself up, her movements awkward and pained. She didn't look at Elijah, didn't look at the money, didn't look at the stain on the floor.
She simply staggered past the empty seat opposite him and dropped heavily into the one directly beside him, tucking her knees up tight beneath her skirt.
Elijah watched her, his expression neutral again. He put the cash into his own inner jacket pocket, feeling the weight of the paper against his chest.
The train rattled on, moving them both toward the next stop, together. Same as always.