The hallway of the apartment complex was long and narrow, the kind that seemed to stretch farther than it should, as though it resented being walked through. The overhead bulbs flickered with a tired, uneven hum, casting a sickly yellow light that flattened everything into one dull shade of despair. The wallpaper, once patterned with faded roses, peeled away in curling strips that hung like shedding skin. Beneath it, damp patches bloomed dark and uneven, spreading slowly as if the walls themselves were sweating.
The air was thick and wet, heavy with the scent of mildew that clung to the back of the throat. It mixed with the sharp, sour odor of baby waste drifting from one of the doors halfway down the corridor. The young mother who lived there with her two infants often left diapers wrapped too loosely in a small bin outside her door, and the smell seeped out stubbornly, blending with the aroma of overboiled rice, burnt stew, and cheap frying oil. It was the scent of meals stretched too thin and days that began and ended in exhaustion.
Somewhere near the cracked baseboards, tiny bodies darted in quick, nervous bursts. Rats, small and gray, skittered from one shadow to another, their claws clicking faintly against the concrete. They knew the hallway well. They belonged here as much as the tenants did.
The carpet runner, if it could still be called that, was threadbare and stained with old spills that no one bothered trying to scrub away anymore. Doors were scuffed and dented, numbers hanging crooked or missing entirely. The place did not shout its misery; it breathed it quietly, steadily. It was the kind of hallway where hope arrived already limping. A place where rent was paid late, where arguments seeped through thin walls, where ambition thinned out and settled like dust. A place where dreams came, waited, and slowly learned they were not leaving.
At the far end of the staircase that led into the corridor, Mateo stood by a narrow window streaked with grime. Outside, the city lights blinked indifferently. He leaned against the wall, one shoulder pressed to the peeling plaster, a cigarette balanced between his fingers. The smoke curled upward in lazy spirals, briefly masking the hallway's damp stench with the bitter scent of tobacco.
He exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded as he replayed Lucas's message in his mind. A job. Simple, he'd said. Just pick up a painting. Mateo knew better than to believe in "just" anything when it came to Lucas. Nothing was ever only what it sounded like.
He flicked ash onto the cracked windowsill and considered how he would present it to Bambi. He could already picture her expression—worried, questioning. He'd start by acting tired, maybe even offended. Tell her she was overthinking. Remind her of how hard he worked for them. Twist her concern into doubt about her own trust. Make it seem like her anxiety was the problem, not his secrecy. It wasn't difficult. It never had been.
The cigarette burned down to the filter. He crushed it against the sill, watching the ember die, then straightened his jacket as if that small adjustment could polish away the hallway's grime from his presence.
With measured steps, he walked down the corridor, past the door that smelled of sour milk and desperation, past the patch of wallpaper hanging loose like a white flag of surrender. The rats scattered at his approach.
He stopped at his door. For a moment, he schooled his face into something softer, something reassuring. Then he turned the handle.
The door creaked open to reveal Bambi standing directly in front of him.
Her eyes were wide, worry etched into her features before she could even hide it. The dim hallway light spilled past him into the apartment behind her, catching the tremble in her breath.
Mateo paused only a second before slipping into a faint smile, already preparing his words.
"You can't take it."
The words hit him before the door was even fully closed. Bambi stood there in the middle of the room, arms crossed tight over her chest, her jaw set in that way she had when she'd been working herself up for hours.
Mateo let the door click shut behind him. "I haven't even said anything yet."
"I know that look." Her voice was shaking but loud. Too loud for these thin walls. "I know what it means when you come in here with that face. Lucas called you."
"So what if he did?" He tossed his jacket onto the chair, aiming for casual but missing by a mile. "It's a job. We need money, Bambi. In case you haven't noticed, rent's due in four days."
"Not this job." She stepped toward him, and for a second he saw something desperate in her eyes. Scared. "Not anything from Lucas. Mateo, please. I'm begging you."
He felt his teeth grind together. "You don't even know what it is."
"I know who it's from." Her voice cracked. "I know what happened to Jade."
The name landed between them like something thrown. Mateo went still, his jaw working.
"Jade," he repeated flatly. "You're gonna bring up Jade right now."
"Someone came here today, Mateo." Bambi's arms dropped to her sides, her hands opening like she was reaching for something she couldn't touch. "Some man I didn't know stood outside our door and told me to remind you what happens to people who keep things that aren't theirs. What do you think that means?"
Mateo felt the cold thing from before settle deeper into his chest. But he couldn't show her that. Couldn't let her see.
"It means nothing," he said. "It means Lucas is careful. It means he covers his bases. That's why nothing happened to him when Jade—"
"When Jade ended up dead?" Bambi's voice went sharp, cutting through the stale air. "That's your defense? That Lucas is smart enough not to get caught?"
"Lucas didn't kill Jade."
"No?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just acid. "He only gave you advice right. it was full proof, take a loan, start a business and then pay back. Just said it was simple." She was crying now, tears spilling over despite the fury in her face. "And now my best friend is in the ground and he's still here and you're about to do the exact same thing."
Mateo felt something snap behind his ribs. "Don't you dare stand there and lecture me about survival."
"I'm not lecturing, I'm trying to keep you alive!"
"You're trying to keep me trapped!" His voice rose to meet hers, bouncing off the thin walls. "You think I want this? You think I want to take jobs from guys like Lucas? I do it because we don't have a choice. Because someone has to bring money into this apartment and it sure as hell isn't you anymore."
The words hung there. He watched her face change, watched the hurt bloom behind her eyes, and something ugly in him pushed harder.
"You think I forgot?" He stepped closer, close enough to see her flinch. "You think I don't remember what you used to do? How you used to bring money home? At least my jobs don't require me to spread my legs for strangers."
Bambi's mouth opened but nothing came out. She looked like he'd hit her. Maybe he had.
"Everything I do," he said, quieter now but somehow worse for it, "everything I've done since we got together, has been to get us out of this. To give you something better than that life. And you stand here telling me I can't take the one job that might actually get us there?"
"I never asked you to save me." Her voice was barely a whisper.
"No. You just let me try." He turned away from her, ran both hands through his hair, gripped the back of his neck. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with something that might have been tears or might have been rage. "You know what your problem is? You see danger everywhere except in the mirror. Jade was your friend. I get it. But Jade made her own choices. Jade knew the risks involved. And if you want to blame someone for her being dead, maybe you should think about who introduced us to Lucas in the first place."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the hallway noises seemed to pause.
When he turned back, Bambi was staring at the floor. Her shoulders shook once, twice, and then the tears came in earnest—not the angry tears from before, but the kind that come from something breaking inside.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just—I got scared. I saw that man and I thought—" She pressed both hands to her face. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have started a fight. I know you're just trying."
He watched her for a long moment. Then his face softened, the anger bleeding away into something gentler. He crossed the space between them and pulled her into his arms.
She melted against him immediately, her body shaking with quiet sobs, her fingers clutching at his shirt like he was the only solid thing in the world. He held her there, one hand smoothing down her hair, slow and steady, over and over until her breathing started to even out.
"Shh," he murmured. "It's okay. I've got you."
His hand traced from the crown of her head down the length of her hair, following it past her shoulder, his fingers light against the side of her neck. He cupped her chin, tilting her face up gently until her wet eyes met his.
She looked so small like this. So sorry. So ready to believe him.
He kissed her. Soft at first, almost tender, the kind of kiss that said forgiveness without needing words. She kissed him back, desperate and grateful, her hands still gripping his shirt.
When he pulled back, just enough to speak, his lips brushed against hers.
"If you're really sorry," he breathed, "you know what to do."
Her eyes searched his face. For what, he didn't know. Permission? Mercy? He held her gaze, steady and sure, waiting.
The moment stretched, thick as the air in the hallway outside.
Then Bambi's hands released his shirt. She swallowed once. And slowly, so slowly, she began to lower herself to her knees.