The pounding on the door woke him. "Get out! Get out!"
Mr. Okoye sounded furious, well beyond furious. It was eviction time, Makun still hadn't paid, and the landlord was done waiting; by the sound of it, he had brought backup to drag Makun out if he had to.
Makun sat up and rubbed his eyes. Friday had been exhausting: the reading, the presence, the particles, the Night Market. And then something, the book probably, had drained every scrap of energy he had. He had slept for fourteen hours, and if it weren't for Okoye's shouting he might still be asleep. It was nine o'clock on Saturday night.
Reality landed all at once. He had no job. He owed Atlantic Collections four thousand two hundred dollars. He was being evicted, he had to find somewhere to live and something to eat, and he had twenty dollars to do it with. And now the whole Mystic world sat on top of all that. He didn't know what to do, and that only told him one thing: diving into mysticism was his only way out.
He got up and opened the door. Outside it was full night, the streetlights casting orange pools on the cracked pavement. Mr. Okoye stood in the hallway between two police officers who looked bored, as if this were routine. It probably was.
"Are you moving out or what?" Okoye asked, already knowing the answer.
Makun wanted to argue, to ask for more time. That was his nature: negotiate, find an angle, talk his way through. But his neck still hurt where Zack had grabbed him, and the bruises were tender. If the police got rough, a taser, an arm across his throat, it could get much worse.
"I'm moving out," he said quietly.
Okoye's eyebrows rose, as if he had expected a fight. "Good. You have thirty minutes to pack. Anything left after that gets thrown out." He crossed his arms, and the officers stayed silent.
Thirty minutes to gather twenty-three years of life. Makun pulled the small sports bag from his closet, the one he used to take to the gym back when he could afford a membership, and asked himself what mattered. Two shirts, one pair of jeans, underwear and socks. His phone charger. The veiled woman's pendant, which he held for a moment, feeling the weight of next week's debt, before dropping it in.
Then the book. He picked it up from the floor where it had fallen and looked at it for a long moment. The Goal of a Mystic. This was everything now, his only path forward, and he packed it carefully and made sure it was secure. Toothbrush, deodorant, the basics. That was all. The rest, the furniture he didn't own and the folding chair that served as a nightstand, had never belonged to him anyway.
Twenty-three years, and it fit in a sports bag.
He zipped it shut, slung it over his shoulder and walked out. Okoye checked his watch. "Seventeen minutes. You're quick."
Makun said nothing. He walked past the landlord and the officers, down the stairs and out into the night, and the building door shut behind him with a heavy, final clunk.
He stood on the sidewalk and looked around. Where could he even go? Should he leave the city altogether? Were there Night Markets in other places, or only here? He didn't know. He would probably have to find a homeless shelter for tonight and look for something more permanent in the morning. It was a plan, such as it was.
He started walking, in no particular direction, just away. His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten since Friday afternoon, before the market, and he was starving, but food cost money, and twenty dollars had to last.
The streets were busier now, Saturday-night crowds heading to restaurants and bars and clubs, living their lives as if the world weren't layered with invisible predators. After twenty minutes he changed his mind about the shelter. He needed a moment first, just one, to sit and breathe and think without moving.
A neon sign flickered ahead: The Rusty Anchor. It looked generic and probably cheap. He pushed through the door into warm air that smelled of beer and fried food, music playing over the speakers and voices talking and laughing, ordinary people doing ordinary things. He found an empty stool at the bar. The bartender, middle-aged with tired eyes, looked him over.
"What'll it be?"
"A bottle of beer. The cheapest you've got."
The bartender popped the cap and slid it across. "Four dollars."
Makun paid. Sixteen left. He took the bottle to a small table in the corner and sat down. It was cold and bitter and not very good, but it was something, and maybe it would distract him for a few minutes, long enough to work out his next move.
He had taken a second sip when voices rose across the bar, sharp and angry. Two men were on their feet, their faces red.
"You calling me a liar?"
"I'm calling you exactly what you are!"
Chairs scraped and someone shoved someone. "Hey!" the bartender shouted. "Take it outside!" They didn't listen. One of them swung, his fist cracked against the other man's jaw, and the man stumbled back into a table and sent bottles shattering to the floor. People screamed and scrambled away as the fight broke loose, fast and violent.
And Makun was sitting right in the middle of it.