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 with a low sound of 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 or worn down.
Elijah Trinity Miller—sixteen with 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 and 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 as 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 some 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 with the fabric frayed and revealing more skin than regulation allowed with the Eleventh Grade designation barely visible beneath the crumpling. Her shoulders were shaking with a desperate silent struggle.
Elijah didn't feel a spike of adrenaline or moral panic. He felt like observing the show. The rice had been cooked, as the saying went. The damage was done from what he was seeing. If he played hero now, well let's say 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 like 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 if you think about it. It was then that his eyes narrowed, focusing not on the struggle, but on the Assailant's bulky coat pocket.
Self-interest was a hell of a motivator isn't it. The guy was occupied, distracted by the raw focused exertion of his act. That kind of focus was a vulnerability he found too good to miss.
Elijah slipped the cigarette from his lips and tucked it behind his ear. The movement was fluid and quiet, drawing no attention from the five or six other weary passengers of a mother staring at her phone and 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 and the cheap cologne he was wearing. The girl's eyes were wide, darting around but mostly 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 removed the worn leather wallet and a heavy but slightly cracked smartphone in one quick practiced motion. His eyes scanned the wallet in the periphery. Cash, yeah. A decent, thick roll of it. He thumbed the bills out.
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 money and the phone.
The risk was taken and the reward collected.
That was when the Assailant noticed. A shift in the weight of his coat and the rustle of fabric gave it away. 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, also turning to see Elijah standing there. Her eyes—dark and terrified, flickered with a desperate, frantic hope.
Elijah didn't look at her, he didn't need to. Ignoring her, he locked eyes with the man while holding the phone like a loaded gun. He let the threat speak for itself. He didn't raise his voice to shout. He 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 changing from anger, confusion, and then a horrible but cold comprehension. Exposure meant one hell of jail time and loss of everything.
He realized he was being robbed by a ghost of a kid who saw an opportunity in human misery. The man's eyes flicked to the phone in Elijah's hand, then to the girl who was the ultimate witness.
He swallowed hard as 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 fragile 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 with the money heavy in his fist like a bribed lawman silently witnessing the rest of the act.
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 whimpers trapped against the damp grimy paint. The assault ended within seconds in a brutal fashion.
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 screech. This was likely the man's stop. He spared one frantic, hate-filled glance at Elijah then blended into the anonymity of the platform as if the boy hadn't done him more good than harm.
Elijah watched him go, then turned his gaze back to the girl.
She was still pressed against the corner with her head tucked down and shoulders shaking violently, the front of her uniform shirt mostly drenched. He could see the dark wet patch on the floor, most likely the mixed fluids pooling slightly under her.
The silence that followed weighed heavy, broken only by the faint trembling of her shoulders.
He reached into the pile of bills he'd taken. He peeled off half the stack which was a little over sixty thousand Noxs 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 shuddering as her whole body convulsed by the sobs she was refusing to let out loudly. The sound, or lack thereof, started to irritate him.
"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 was far more 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, you should know that by now."
She didn't take them. She brought her free hand up and slapped the tissues away, her strength surprising him for a second.
The audacity.
Elijah reacted instantly. Not with anger but that of reflexive control. His hand shot out, not a wild punch, but a sharp open-handed slap across her cheek.
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 time, a fresh wave of tears blurring her vision. She made no move to fight back. She only looked down to locate the tissues on the floor and began to wipe her face, the front of her uniform and the train floor.
When she was done, she used the train wall to push herself up, her movements slightly awkward and pained. She didn't look at Elijah nor did she look at the money and 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 with his neutral expression. 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.