The market was a living beast, and Crystal El-Amin was in its belly. A steady uproar of haggling voices rose around her, while the air hummed with the mingled scent of tanned hides and desperation. She slipped through the throng, a ghost in jeans and an old army jacket, and reached her father's kiosk just as the clouds broke, spilling sunshine across the concrete like a flash sale.
The kiosk stood like a neglected child admist the vibrant chaos, its chipped wood counter a testament to days when her father's name meant something. Crystal moved quickly, arranging the bags with the practiced hands of someone used to salvaging hope from the remnants of ambition. Her father had loved this market, its vibrant pulse, the art of the deal. Now it felt more like a specter haunting her, a constant reminder of debts that grew heavier with each passing day.
A young woman stopped to finger the leather straps, her eyes lingering as if deciding whether commitment was worth the price. "How much?" she asked, her tone more obligation than interest.
"300 dirhams," Crystal replied, trying to infuse her voice with the confidence she lacked.
The woman frowned, letting the bag slip from her fingers. "I'll think about it," she said, leaving without another word.
Crystal watched her go, frustration knotting her stomach. The kiosk was meant to be a stopgap, a stepping stone to greater things. Now it felt like the end of the road, with every unsold bag a small failure, every disinterested customer a reminder that her father's legacy was crumbling into dust. She glanced at the ledgers, their pages a litany of red, and felt the debts like a noose.
The market buzzed around her, a chaotic symphony of voices and movement. Vendors shouted their wares with theatrical flair; customers wove in and out like fish through coral, quick and indifferent. The air was thick with the mingled scents of leather, spices, and sweat, a perfume of raw ambition and unyielding labor. To Crystal, it was an olfactory assault, as relentless as the pounding in her chest.
"Crystal!" a voice called out, pulling her back from the brink of despair. It was the man who ran the stall next to hers, his apron streaked with grease and good intentions. "Need anything?"
"A few million dirhams would help," she replied, half-joking, half-hoping.
He laughed, a hearty sound that was equal parts amusement and sympathy. "Join the club," he said, shaking his head. "Sales are slow for everyone."
Not slow enough, Crystal thought but didn't say. Even on a bad day, the others were doing better than she was, their names unburdened by the ghost of a failed businessman. She watched the ebb and flow of the crowd, the ebb and flow of fortune, and wondered how much longer she could tread water.
"Hey, it's the leather lady!" another vendor shouted, a wiry man with more lines on his face than Crystal had friends.
She raised a hand in greeting, trying to muster the enthusiasm of someone who didn't feel like she was drowning. "How's business?"
"Better than yours," he said with a wink, and Crystal forced a smile. His bluntness was a kindness in its own way, acknowledging her plight without the pity that made her skin crawl.
"You'll make it," he added, more gently, but Crystal wasn't sure if he meant it or if he was just trying to soothe a wounded animal.
The afternoon stretched into a monotonous rhythm of anticipation and disappointment. Each inquiry, each half-hearted look, added a brick to the wall of despair she was building around herself. By the time the sun started its slow descent, she had barely made enough to cover a single day's interest on her father's loans.
An older vendor, with hands like sun-bleached leather, sidled up to her as she was packing up. "Come eat with us," he said, nodding toward a makeshift table where a group of vendors were gathered.
"I should get home," Crystal said, but even to her own ears it sounded like an excuse.
"Sit," he insisted. "We won't let you starve."
It was an offer she couldn't refuse and wouldn't dare to, not when her stomach growled with the betrayal of poverty. She sat on a wobbly crate, the simplest of meals spread out like a king's feast in front of her.
"How are you holding up?" the old vendor asked, his eyes warm with the wisdom of survival.
She hesitated, the truth too raw to unwrap. "It's been tough," she finally admitted. "I don't know how much longer I can do this."
"You'll find a way," he said, as if speaking from the future. "We all do."
The meal was over too quickly, the company even quicker, and soon Crystal was walking away from the market with the heavy lightness of unexpected generosity. The voices and scents faded into the background, a cacophony muted by distance but not by time. She hugged her jacket tighter around herself, trying to keep out the chill of uncertainty.
By the time she reached the apartment, the sky was a muted gray, a soft canvas for harder thoughts. The food had warmed her, but the weight of her situation settled back in, as constant and unyielding as the crack in the living room ceiling. She wondered how long it would be before even that small kindness was beyond her reach.
They came in like sharks into a shallow bay, and Crystal Armani smelled the blood in the water before they even spoke. The two men wore suits so sharply cut they looked like they might take a slice out of the air, their polished shoes gliding over the market's rough concrete. She recognized their type immediately: predators in Prada, looking for prey.
Crystal had just finished setting up when they appeared, out of place among the worn aprons and calloused hands. She knew they were trouble, but not the size of it. The market noise dimmed around them, the ebb and flow of voices momentarily stilled by the ripple of their presence.
"Miss Armani?" the taller one said, his voice a slick, rehearsed thing. "We've been looking for you."
"We're from the Al-Fayad family," the other added, as if that alone should explain everything.
The name sent a jolt through her, a dark electric current that left her mouth dry. She forced herself to meet their eyes, the urge to flee rising like bile. The Al-fayad family was a powerful family that was famous across the entire UAE.
"What do you want?"
"To offer our condolences," said the tall one, with the sincerity of a man reading from a script. "Your father was...quite the entrepreneur."
The pause before his words stung more than the remark itself. It was the kind of pause that knew things she didn't, that dangled ignorance over her like a sword. "I didn't know my father did business with your family," she said, her voice more accusation than curiosity.
"We have reason to believe you're aware of his dealings with us," the shorter man replied, his gaze pinning her like a specimen to a board.
Crystal shook her head, trying to make sense of it. Her father's reach had been long, but never deep. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The tall one opened his briefcase with a deliberate slowness, drawing out the moment like a predator savoring its kill. He pulled out a thick folder, its edges as crisp as his demeanor. "This might refresh your memory."
The folder landed on the counter between them, a leaden presence that seemed to suck all the air from the space around it. Crystal hesitated, then flipped it open. The numbers leapt out at her, grotesque in their clarity: 24 million dirhams. She stared at them, willing them to dissolve into something she could handle, something less than the end of her world.
"This is a mistake," she said, though the tremor in her voice betrayed the fear beneath her words.
"We assure you, it is not," the shorter man said, his voice as devoid of emotion as the concrete under their feet.
She felt herself falling through a trapdoor, her grip on reality slipping with each passing second. "How could he owe this much? He didn't have anything left."
The men exchanged a look, the kind of look that confirmed everything without saying a thing. "Your father was very optimistic," the tall one said. "His vision sometimes outpaced his resources."
His blunt words cut deeper than the truth would have. Crystal's head spun with the implications, the sum too large to fit inside her skull. 24 million dirhams. Even the thought of it made her dizzy, a number so large it blurred at the edges.
"You'll find all the details in the documents," the shorter man said, his eyes already scanning the market for other prey. "Of course, the Al-Fayad family expects you to settle this debt."
"Settle?" Crystal echoed, the word as absurd as it was impossible. "How?"
"There are several options available," he replied, his tone the epitome of professional detachment. "But ignoring it is not one of them."
The weight of their certainty was suffocating. It pressed down on her with a finality that left no room for doubt or denial. She felt like she was standing at the edge of a cliff, the ground beneath her crumbling with every breath.
"We'll be in touch," the tall one said, slipping a business card next to the folder. "For now, we'll give you time to process."
They turned and walked away, leaving Crystal in a haze of shock and fear, the market swallowing them up like a stone thrown into the sea. Around her, the noise resumed its chaotic hum, indifferent to the life that had just been gutted and left to float aimlessly in the silence.
She stood there for a long time, the folder open in front of her like a wound. 24 million dirhams. It was a sum that belonged to someone else, some other life. She closed the folder, her hands trembling, her mind a blank expanse of desperation. She packed up the kiosk with mechanical motions, the familiar routine failing to anchor her to anything solid.
When she finally closed the shop, the sun had dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows that stretched like unanswered questions across the concrete. She walked away with the heaviness of a life she could no longer recognize, her footsteps as uncertain as the future they lee to.