Raya stood behind the counter of the noisy downtown café, her apron stained with old coffee splashes.
The chatter of customers and the clatter of plates echoed around her, but in her mind, everything was muted.
The shift was nearly over, yet her legs felt like lead. She forced a smile as she handed a customer their change, muttering a hoarse, "Thank you. Please patronize us again."
The customer gave her a polite smile.
You're not allowed to break down, she reminded herself. Not yet.
Just a few more hours… a few more shifts… a few more dollars closer to a mountain that still refused to shrink.
But could these few dollars really save her? The only way to pay this debt was through some miracle, but still, she had to keep trying continuously — even if it all amounted to nothing.
Somewhere, she hoped, her father was still breathing, and that he wasn't making everything worse for her again. Wherever he was.
---
Blake Group — Adrian's Office
One hour later.
The Blakes were into more underground dealings than what they let out. Although they had legitimate businesses like hotels, hospitals, malls, and others, most of their money came from casinos. They were known for their high-stake loans.
They loaned with a frown but collected with a smile — and a crushing interest.
And if you couldn't pay back, you lost your most precious possession… your life, and sometimes the lives of your family.
They were also involved in selling illegal firearms, and they were well known in that business.
The air in the room was cold — not from the AC, but from Adrian Blake's expression.
Stephen returned with two sharply dressed men. One of them carried a black leather-bound book that looked like it belonged to a different era. The casino ledger.
"As requested," Stephen said, gesturing to the man with the book. "These are the highest debtors in the system."
Adrian took it wordlessly and opened it, flipping through neatly organized pages of names, numbers, and red stamps. His eyes skimmed quickly.
Ten names stood out — the highest debts on record.
1. Alexander Drayton - $5,000,000
2. Vincent Leclerc - $4,850,000
3. Damien Kovacs - $4,230,000
4. Matteo Grimaldi - $3,700,000
5. Callum Reeves - $3,500,000
6. Emilio Santoro - $3,200,000
7. Sven Lindgren - $2,980,000
8. Elias Koenig - $2,170,000
9. Philip Calder - $2,060,000
10. Hector Lin - $2,020,000
Adrian stopped at number 9.
"Philip Calder," he read aloud. "Who the hell is that?"
The other names felt familiar; they were regular patrons. But Philip's name stood out — this was the first time Adrian had seen it.
One of the men replied quickly. "He's a known low-level addict, sir. His debts go back years. But this is his first time at the den."
Adrian's gaze sharpened. "Two million, sixty thousand? That's a lot for a nobody. Yet you let a nobody owe me that amount?"
Another one answered nervously. "He started with smaller amounts but kept borrowing. Interest piled up fast. But he has a daughter, around 23. He said she would pay back."
"What work does this daughter of a nobody do?" Adrian asked, his gaze sharp.
They both swallowed hard. One replied, "She works several part-time jobs. She's been efficient in paying her father's smaller loans."
"Has she ever paid anything close to two million before?" Stephen asked.
The two men dropped their gazes to the floor.
Adrian laughed, low and terrifying.
"So you're telling me… you gave someone who has never paid a million dollars in her life… my money?"
The money meant nothing to him, but that didn't mean he wasted it either.
Adrian closed the folder. "Get me everything on this nobody. Background, family, connections, photos. Everything."
"Yes, sir," the men replied before leaving.
Adrian leaned back in his chair, jaw tight. Outside, the city buzzed in its usual chaos. But inside his mind, the chaos was greater.
---
The city's lights flickered to life as dusk painted the sky in shades of bruised orange and gray. Raya's footsteps were heavy, her legs trembling slightly from the weight of the day — or perhaps from the bruise on her ribs left by the harness during the stunt shoot. She couldn't tell anymore.
This was her sixth job today.
She hadn't sat down in hours.
From restocking books at a dusty old bookstore at sunrise, to delivering flyers in the afternoon heat, filling in for a catering gig at an art exhibit, rushing to a temp call to organize props for a commercial shoot, and finally, the stunt job — her most demanding shift — every hour had pulled something out of her body like thread unraveling from worn cloth.
The stunt had involved getting slapped repeatedly in a short film scene, standing in for an actress who'd gone on leave. These days, it seemed actresses lacked professionalism… they were always on leave. But who was she to complain? Their absence was what made money for her.
They'd paid decently, at least compared to her other jobs. And she'd played the scene well — so well the director had praised her, the other staff clapped, and someone even joked, "You should be the lead, not her." The actress hadn't been too pleased with that comment.
It seemed Raya always did better in slap scenes than any other.
She had only smiled, her jaw still stinging from the sixth take. And to top it all, the stupid actress had purposely slapped her with full strength each time, just to satisfy her ego. If not for the fact that she needed the money, Raya would have beaten the woman to a pulp for making her ears ring.
Now, as the night closed in, she adjusted the strap of her small bag and jogged across the busy street, weaving between moving cars with the ease of someone too tired to fear anything. She had thirty minutes to get to her night job — the bar.
The last one for the day.
She stopped by a vending machine outside a gas station and leaned against it, catching her breath. Her hands shook slightly as she pressed the button for water. The bottle clattered down, and she took a long drink before pushing herself upright again.
Her uniform apron was still in her bag — she'd ironed it yesterday, just in case she was too exhausted to do it today. And thank God she had. There wouldn't have been time. There was never enough time.
She arrived at the back entrance of the bar, nodded at the bouncer, and slipped inside through the staff hallway. The warm air smelled like beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke — the usual cocktail of Friday nights.
The manager, a tall woman with dark red lipstick and no patience for lateness, glanced up from her clipboard.
"You're just in time," she said flatly. "The floor's packed. Section C."
Raya tied on her apron without a word and moved toward her section. Her feet protested with every step, but she drowned them out with habit.
The music thumped, glasses clinked, someone laughed too loudly at the corner. Raya forced her expression into something neutral and approached a group waving at her table.
Smiles. Orders. Quick steps.
One tray at a time. No need to show off stupid skills of carrying more than one tray.
This was her rhythm — her quiet fight for survival.
It wasn't about dreams anymore. Did she even have dreams? All she wanted right now was just to survive.
She used to have dreams when she was younger. Even up until three years ago, she believed she would achieve great things. But not anymore — especially not tonight. Not when her bones ached and her eyes burned from lack of sleep. Not when her fingers were raw from carrying trays and being pulled into risky temp gigs for the hope of a few hundred dollars.
Every pain she felt was a reminder that her dreams were long gone, and may never come alive again.
She could still feel the echoes of the slap scene from earlier. The way everyone had clapped. The way the real actress had glared at her.
It was funny how sometimes praise hurt more than pain — because it reminded her she didn't belong in the world she performed so well in.
She slid a drink onto a table and whispered a thank you, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar. Her hair was tied up, messy strands escaping at her temples. Dark circles smudged beneath her rare, beautiful gray eyes. Her lips were pale. Her shoulders tense.
But she didn't flinch at the reflection. Beauty wasn't her priority right now.
And this… it was just another shift.
Tomorrow would be the same. And the next.
Maybe her life would continue to go around in this circle. An endless circle.
And maybe — just maybe — if she kept at it long enough, it would all be worth it.