POV: Lily Ashford
The coffee machine screams again.
I don't flinch anymore. After six months of working at this café, the hiss of steam has become as familiar as my own heartbeat—loud, constant, and utterly exhausting.
"Vanilla latte, extra shot, no foam!" I call out, sliding the cup across the counter to a woman who doesn't even glance at me. Nobody does. I'm invisible here. Just another pair of hands keeping New York's caffeine addiction alive.
My phone buzzes.
I pull it from my apron pocket, hoping—still hoping, even though I know better—that it's my mom or dad. Something. Anything about my graduation next month.
It's not.
Maya:Girl where are you tonight??? James is bringing his friends and honestly you NEED to meet them
I smile at my best friend's drama, but my chest tightens. No money for going out. No money for anything, really. I type back: Can't. Work till close, then studying for finals. Sorry babe.
I watch the three dots appear and disappear. Maya's probably rolling her eyes. She doesn't get it—how some people have safety nets, and some of us are just... falling.
A man in an expensive suit orders a black coffee. Black coffee. Of course. He doesn't even taste it before he leaves. I wonder what that's like—not caring about money. Not calculating every dollar in your head like it's your lifeline.
By 8 PM, my feet are screaming, my back is bent, and I've made exactly $47 in tips. Forty-seven dollars closer to next month's rent. My manager counts the register—I'm not trusted with that part—and dismisses me with a nod.
I punch out and check my phone one more time.
Still nothing from Mom and Dad.
The rain hits me like a slap the moment I step outside.
Not gentle rain. Not the kind you walk through. This is the kind that attacks—thick, heavy drops that soak through my thin jacket and plaster my hair to my face. I didn't bring an umbrella. Can't afford to lose one, and the two-dollar ones from the corner store break in about five minutes.
The city looks different in storms like this. Meaner. The streetlights blur into ghosts. Abandoned umbrellas line the gutters like dead birds. Fewer people on the streets means fewer safe places to hide.
I walk faster anyway.
My mind drifts to tomorrow—the gallery interview at Meridian Art. Assistant curator position. It's not much, but it's something. A real job. A chance to stop smelling like burnt espresso and crying inside a walk-in freezer during my breaks.
Mom actually sounded proud when I told her about it last week. Or maybe I imagined that. It's hard to tell with her anymore. She and Dad have been worse lately. The kind of "worse" where they disappear for days, come home with that glazed look in their eyes, and pretend everything's fine while our apartment slowly disappears into pawn shops and loan sharks.
I've stopped asking where things go.
My tiny studio apartment costs $1,200 a month. Community college is another $800 a semester. Work-study job pays $13 an hour. The math is a problem I solve every single day, and I always come up short.
But it's mine. That apartment. The first place I've ever had that wasn't shared with their chaos. That wasn't waiting for them to destroy it.
The bodega on the corner still has lights on. I duck inside, grateful for the warmth and the break from the storm.
"Bad night, mija," the owner, Mr. Chen, says from behind the counter. He's been here longer than I've been alive. He knows everyone's problems without asking.
"Just wet," I say, heading to the instant ramen section. I count my cash. Eleven dollars now, after my tip-out. I grab two packs—beef and chicken. A bottle of water. That leaves me $8.50 for the rest of the week. Should be enough if I'm careful.
"Storm's getting bad," Mr. Chen warns as he rings me up. "Real bad. You should've taken the bus."
"Bus costs money," I say without thinking. Then I smile to soften it. "I'm used to worse than rain, Mr. Chen. Trust me."
He doesn't look convinced, but he bags my stuff anyway. "Your parents know you're out in this?"
The question lands wrong. Too close to the truth. "Yeah. They know."
I don't tell him they haven't answered my texts about graduation in three days.
The storm is worse when I step back outside. The wind picks up, threatening to knock me sideways. I'm soaked completely now—my jeans stick to my legs, my shoes squish with every step. A homeless man huddles under a doorway, and I give him my water bottle as I pass.
"God bless," he calls after me.
God bless. As if blessing helps when you're broke and alone and drowning in a city of eight million people.
My apartment building looms ahead—a old six-story walk-up that should've been condemned ten years ago. The front door lock broke last month. The landlord promised to fix it. He never does.
I climb the three flights of stairs, my legs burning, my wet clothes clinging like a second skin. The hallway smells like someone's cooking and someone else's desperation.
My apartment is at the end of the hall. 3F.
I reach for my keys.
That's when I see it.
The door is open.
Not cracked. Not ajar. Open.
My heartbeat stops.
Then it crashes back—faster, harder, turning my blood into ice water.
"No. No, no, no..."
I step closer, my hand trembling. The hallway light catches the edge of my door, and I can see—
Oh God.
I can see.
I can see blood on the white paint.
"Hello?" My voice sounds small, broken. "Mom? Dad?"
Nothing.
The apartment is dark inside. Completely dark. And quiet in a way that screams wrong.
I should call the police. I should run. Every survival instinct is screaming at me to turn around and get help.
Instead, I push the door wider and step inside.
My eyes adjust slowly to the darkness. Shapes emerge. Furniture. But not—not quite right. The couch is smashed. Completely destroyed. My laptop—the one I spent three months saving for—is in pieces on the floor. Books scattered everywhere. My textbooks. My dreams.
Everything broken.
Everything bleeding.
There's more blood now that I'm inside. On the walls. On the floor. Not a lot, but enough to tell me something bad happened here.
"Mom?!" I'm moving through the apartment like a ghost, my phone already in my shaking hand. "Dad?!"
No answer.
I reach for the light switch, my fingers inches away from the wall—
A hand clamps over my mouth from behind.
The scream that wants to come out dies in my throat. An arm wraps around my body—muscular, strong, impossibly strong—and pins my arms to my sides.
"Don't make a sound," a voice whispers in my ear. Deep. Cold. Like black velvet wrapped around a knife blade.
My phone falls from my numb fingers and clatters on the floor.
I'm going to die.
This is it. This is how it ends. In my apartment. In the dark. Alone.
The hand tightens over my mouth, and I can taste fear. Copper and salt.
The voice continues, dropping lower, more dangerous: "Your parents sold you, little girl. Did they tell you? Probably not."
My eyes go wide.
Sold.
Sold?
"Twenty thousand dollars," the voice continues, like he's discussing the weather. "That's what you're worth to them."
I thrash, trying to break free, but he's too strong. Too solid. Too real.
"Your parents couldn't pay their debt. So they paid with you instead."
The words don't make sense. Can't make sense.
"You belong to us now."