The train ran along at 10 p.m., the late evening sky a blur of dark blues and city lights streaking past the window.
I slouched in my seat, headphones snug over my ears, slow music humming soft—some mellow track with a lazy beat, the kind that matched the heaviness in my chest.
My eyes drifted over the scenery—neon signs flickering in the distance, shadowy buildings sliding by. I let out a long *sighhhh*, my breath fogging the glass for a sec, and glanced down at the cheque crumpled in my hand, the ink smudged from my sweaty grip.
My mind wouldn't quit—replaying the shitshow that went down at the brothel, Sara's smirk, her voice, the weight of her threats still choking me.
Earlier, when I'd stumbled out of that cramped room, my t-shirt wrinkled, I'd run into Jonathan in the cellar. He was leaning against the bar, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his sharp suit looking a little rumpled as he counted cash from the night.
