Part 2

  The Heart Beats, Hear the Strings

  “I am not interested in power for power’s sake, but I’m interested in power that is moral, that is right and that is good ” — Martin Luther King Jr.

  6.1

  The man with the pink-cross optics and tawny belt-bound leather pauldron shuffles back and forth, quickly now, minding his step and eying me up and down, seething, growling, as if measuring the space between us in blood, calculating the exact moment he’ll lunge: when my guard falters, when my breath hitches, when the glare overhead brightens just enough to shadow his intent. He’s so large and quick that if I don’t move now he might flash forward and—

  Whack!

  His fist collides with my ribs, and it’s like something inside collapses. Bone scraping against bone, nerves shrieking, a deep, sucking agony that coils up through my side and burrows under my shoulder. Then comes the pulsing: a heartbeat hammering and swelling with every breath.

  And I feel it again.

  Pain.

  I struggle to find my footing, stumble, hit my head off the slab of reinforced concrete that forms the ring’s outer edge. The impact rattles through my skull, sending sparks across my vision. The ring isn’t much. Just a hollowed-out atrium at the bottom of the apartment complex, where maintenance lights twitch and exposed rebar juts from the walls. The floor is nothing but steel plating and old laminate, uneven, wrapping around and around in a series of long steps, and at the end of them the crowd roars, as if watching animals rather than two southsiders trying to make some eddies. They scream for violence. They pound their fists against the mesh.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  “A heavy hit on Mono,” the commentator shouts, sitting on her little throne, microphone in hand, mohawk and red visor catching the glitz like a bad holo-ad. Her smile is wide, sharkish, full of teeth too white to be real, and her voice, grating, electric, juiced-up on synthetic enthusiasm, thrums through the wall-bolted speakers. “That one’s gotta hurt like a motherfucker. Yes sir-reeee!”

  The man with the tawny belt-bound leather pauldron throws his arms in the air and roars. The crowd is loving this shit, considering most would have bet against me.

  I could call it quits now and walk away ten thousand eddies lighter. My own damn fault. He looked half-starved, itching for a challenge. I figured he’d be easy money. My spoofer backed it up, too: no netrunning software, no dermal plating, nothing that should’ve given him the edge. But even with the strength of my cybernetic arm, I can’t keep up. He’s just too damn smart. Every time I attack, he attacks right back. Not at my face, not at my chest, not even at my legs. No, he goes for the gap. The empty space where my right arm should be. He waits until I throw a punch, then steps just out of range, forcing me to overextend, to shift my weight where I don’t want it. And the second I do—bam—his fist hammers into my exposed ribs, my shoulder, the vulnerable hinge of my left elbow. Every hit shoves me further off balance.

  He’s not stronger than me. He’s smarter. But I can’t hack my way out of this one. No netrunning allowed. No implants. Just grit.

  I pick myself up, looking unsteady, feeling unsteady.

  He turns to me. “Still haven’t given up?” He marches forward, one heavy stomp at a time, not even bothering to protect his face.

  I get a couple steps in, moving towards the right side of the slab, but then he raises his arms again, and I can’t hit him. There’s no opening.

  “Come on, punch the bitch,” a man yells from the crowd.

  I try to get one hit in, just one, but he sidesteps again, and again, and—

  Another punch to my left side. This time I manage to grab onto his arm, and like before when I woke up in the circuitery, on the brink of death, I try to crush his ulna and radius, but he slithers out of my grasp and I’m left holding the cuff of his sleeve. He punches me again, and I fall, head bouncing, once, twice, three times.

  “And down she goes again,” the commentator says. “Seems this is a one-sided match, after all, folks. Now let’s make some fuckin’ noise, hey?”

  The man’s still cheering, still playing to the crowd. I feel the micro-shifts in his weight, the way his stance slackens, that sliver of arrogance just before he moves in for another strike. He thinks it’s over.

  Now.

  My fingers twitch. The sleeve coils tight around my cybernetic hand. The second he shifts forward, I yank. The sudden force drags him off-balance, his footing slipping just enough for me to roll out of the way. His knee juts forward as he tries to catch himself. And that’s when I strike. With my only arm, I slam my fist into his kneecap.

  A choked yell rips out of him as his leg buckles, his weight crashing down wrong, his body folding in on itself.

  The crowd oohs.

  “And Mono is showin’ some fuckin’ life,” the commentator shouts. “Look at her go, go, gooooooooo!”

  I don’t give him a chance to recover. I go to finish him off, foot poised for a knockout blow, when something clamps onto my wrist. Not him.

  Them.

  Arms, fingers, nails biting into my skin through the cage. Holding me back.

  “Get off,” I shout.

  They can’t do that. It’s against the rules. It has to be.

  But it’s too late. The man with the belt-bound leather pauldron picks himself up, whirls forward, and whomp. I go helplessly sprawling. Down now, back and back. Something heavy battering the back of my skull. The cage. The ground leaps up to meet me, smashes into my ribs, drives the breath from my lungs in one sharp, sucking oof. Face-first. I’m out. There’s no chance.

  More cheering, more roaring, and the voice of the commentator is so muffled through my disorientation that she sounds like a radio tuned to a station too far.

  “Okay,” I shout. “You win!”

  “Oh no you fuckin’ don’t,” the man yells.

  “Hey now,” the commentator says, a hint of concern in her voice.

  The man with the belt-bound leather pauldron rushes forward, moving with a slight limp, and kicks me in the shoulder. The crowd are all for it, but the commentator shouts again:

  “Hey, the match is over. Let off, Ernie!”

  But the man comes down on me again with that heavy foot; he’s about to stomp on my skull. Then—

  Ernie stops in place, and a spark shoots out from the cyberware embedded in his forehead. He shakes, as if being electrocuted, then falls flat, hitting the ground with a loud thunk. The crowd groans, disappointed no doubt. When I look through the cage, catching my breath, I see the commentator standing upright on the chair, one leg on the armrest, hand to her temple.

  She’d short-circuited him.

  Thank God for that.

  “It was just getting good,” an onlooker whined, walking away.

  The cage lifts along the corner rails, and I push myself to my feet. Without hesitation, I reach into my pocket, pull out my MX inhaler, and take a quick hit. The relief is immediate, though I’m still a little dazed.

  This was such a stupid idea. I should have never challenged him to a fight just for some money, but he was such a loudmouth, such an asshole, that I found it hard not to. And I have such a huge problem in close hand-to-hand combat; it’s so easy for someone to exploit the fact I’m missing an arm. All they have to do is wait for me to strike first, step back, and hit me. That’s it. How am I supposed to compete with that?

  Betters move fast. No hesitation. They don’t wait for the dust to settle; they’re already collecting. A handful of them gather near the payout station, a repurposed bar counter where a rail-thin bookie sits behind reinforced plexiglass. His fingers fly across an old, grease-smudged holo-tablet, numbers shifting on the display as he registers the results. Next to him, a mounted scanner hums, reading the embedded chips of the winners, transferring credits in real time. And there’s shouting. A heated argument near the back, two men accusing a third of hedging bets, of tipping the fight. One of them pulls out a shock-knuckled glove and swings, cracking the guy across the jaw. Another is demanding to see the bookie’s logs, yelling about ‘fraud, rigged odds, bullshit.’ Security, a pair of aug’d-out bouncers with subdermal plating and dead stares, steps in, and within seconds, the whole thing is shut down.

  None of it is professional. It’s all makeshift, thrown together in the dark, buried beneath the apartment complex like a secret no one wants to admit exists. The fights echo up through the walls, a steady rhythm of violence I’d hear every time I stepped outside. It’s funny, really. The complex itself is decent: spacious, not too cramped. Not rich or fancy, but comfortable enough. You wouldn’t think a place like this would have a fight pit rotting in its foundation. But here it is.

  And now, I’ve learned something about myself.

  I’m not all that tough. Not all that strong.

  If I was a fighter in my past life, I sure as hell don’t remember it. Maybe that’s because, back then, I had two arms instead of one.

  Ten grand lighter. A big blow, though luckily I still have a fair number of eddies left in the bank. I’d been cautious about my spending over the past month, only buying the necessities, as well as some helpful bits.

  I approach the commentator and reach out my hand.

  She smirks, then chuckles, a low, knowing sound. With a quick motion, she unplugs the red visor from either side of her temple and hands it back to me. As soon as it disconnects, the colour drains away, fading to nothing.

  “Good try,” she says. “But you sure as hell ain’t no fighter. I’ve seen a lot, and you don’t got it.”

  “Didn’t ask for your opinion.” I take the visor, fitting the left side to my temple first, then the right. The moment it clicks into place, my vision is swallowed by the familiar blue spoofer haze.

  “Stabilising,” the voice in my head says.

  The visor is a ZennTek Spectra-V3, designed specifically for netrunners. It wasn’t my first choice, but when I told Dr. Maelstrom about the trouble I ran into on my last job, back on the cargo ship, he insisted. The decision to fully embed the spoofer into my cyberware wasn’t made lightly, to be perfectly frank. It’s a gamble, sure, but I needed a solution that wouldn’t leave me scrambling in the middle of a fight, fumbling with a loose connection when every second mattered. With it hardwired into my system, there’s no risk of it slipping, no chance of dislodgement, no desperate moment of relying on someone else to jack it back in.

  And I understand the risk. If it malfunctions, I’m screwed. A glitch at the wrong moment could fry my optics, lock me out of my own interface, maybe even scramble my neural pathways if things go really bad. But the alternative? Being caught without it, helpless, blind in a fight where losing isn’t an option.

  Yeah, I took the risk. And whatever comes next, I’ll handle it.

  So far, no issues. Though, to be fair, I haven’t taken on any big jobs in the last month. Just checked in with Fingers and the crew for updates on the M-Gate plan. The festival is only a couple nights away, and they’re really dragging things out. Beyond that, I’ve spent my time scouring the net for anything I could find on Ourovane or this Cierus Marlow. Nothing. Not even a breadcrumb. If anything useful exists, it’s been wiped from the usual channels. Scrubbed clean. I’ve looked into the dark web, too, but from what I’ve gathered, I’d need a specialised rig to even access it. Not an option. At least, not yet. Doesn’t matter. I already have a lead: Paxson. And on that place, there’s plenty of information.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  I push away from the crowd of betters, navigating through the crush of bodies. Shoulders knock into me, paths cross and tangle, and for a second, it feels like I’m fighting just to move forward. The air is thick, so thick. Dark, smoky, laced with something bitter and dry that clings to my throat.

  And the worst part? I can actually smell it now.

  It’s still strange, having everything back. When Dr. Maelstrom reconnected my central nervous system to my primary operating system, it was as if a switch flipped. Everything clicked into place. Sensations I’d forgotten came rushing back, overwhelming in ways I wasn’t prepared for.

  It comes with its drawbacks, for sure, but I feel alive, healthy, strong.

  Well, maybe not so strong after getting my ass handed to me, but sturdy enough to stand on my own two feet and acknowledge that everything is okay. That everything is green. That I’ll live.

  I step into the elevator shaft at the far end of the pit, exhaling slowly. It’s wide, square, and could fit fifty people at once, probably more if you started stacking bodies. Despite that, it groans upwards, creaking, while the plasma-screen televisions mounted to the sides play news stations and commercials. Nothing too important, just general information about overseas wars, the usual stuff. At least my face isn’t up there. There is a point made about the implementation of androids in the workforce, thanks to some recent upgrades in their hardware which allows them to handle more complex tasks. I’m guessing those bots in the cargo terminal and ship were part of the same programme. Funny. No mention of the incident. No reports about how a simple short-circuit turned one of them into a human meat grinder, slicing through crew members like they were nothing. You’d think the government would slam the brakes on production after something like that. A recall, an investigation. Something. But no. They want more. And why? Eddies. Plain and simple. At the end of the day, safety is only a priority until it gets in the way of profit. If there’s money to be made, regulations don’t just bend; they shatter. This society is digging one massive grave for itself, and it’s thanks to those three-piece-suited bastards with their holo-polished smiles and algorithm-fed policies, feeding the machine while the rest of us choke on the fumes. While the rest of the south chokes on the fumes.

  Even as the elevator rises, I can see it. The apartment complex keeps going up and up, a winding series of levels squaring around a single courtyard of patchy, trodden grass. At its centre, a fountain trickles, the water murky and somewhat foamy, the once-smooth stone streaked with grime and graffiti. The children play around it, dressed in those same sun-bleached, threadbare hand-me-downs: shirts clinging to their thin frames, riddled with holes that have been stitched and restitched with whatever scraps of fabric their families could scavenge. Some wear jackets long outgrown, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

  Then, near the back, movement.

  A tall man steps into the courtyard, receding brown hair slicked back, shoulders slouched under the weight of a battered cardboard box. The children freeze for a second, eyes locking onto him like hungry strays catching the scent of food. Then, they swarm. Hands reach up, grasping at the box, tugging at his sleeves, bouncing on the balls of their feet as they plead for first pick. His tired expression softens just a little as he kneels, cracking open the top, revealing a jumble of half-worn sneakers, dented tin toys, plastic-wrapped rations, and clothes.

  Who is this man? I don’t know. I see him every week, swinging by with supplies. Sometimes food, sometimes toys. Always carrying more than he should, always with that quiet, unshakable smile. He isn’t their father. The children are all different: different faces, different skin tones, different parents who come by to collect them when the sun starts to dip. No, he’s something else entirely. I’ve never had the chance to quick-scan him, to pull up his data and see who he really is. And even now, he’s too far, out of range, slipping between the signals.

  But does it matter?

  Somewhere deep inside me, past all the logic, past the cynicism, past the part of my brain that picks apart every interaction, there’s something simpler. A quiet certainty that, whoever he is, whatever he’s done, he’s got a good heart. It’s not something you can put into words. It’s just one of those hunches, those feelings, the kind that settles deep in your gut, needing no proof or logic to justify itself. A feeling that, for all the things wrong in this city, this man isn’t one of them.

  The elevator rumbles to a stop on the eighth floor, and I step out into a wall of stale sweat, cigars, and bottom-shelf booze. The kind of smell that clings to the walls, seeps into the floor, becomes part of the building’s DNA. A few drunks linger by the ledges, nursing dented beer cans, their eyes glazed and half-lidded. Down the hall, some poor bastards are wrestling with a vending machine, shoving and kicking at it like it owes them rent.

  It doesn’t last long. Two NACP officers come in heavy, black-clad and broad, their armour bulging at the seams like they're built for war instead of crowd control. Their boots hit the floor, clack-clack, thick-soled and punchy, the cold weight of the law crashing down with every step. And their helmets: visors drawn low, polished, reflecting nothing and everything at once. In the hallway shimmer, they look almost liquid: a black void stretched across their faces, a place where expressions go to die.

  And they don’t need to speak. They just stand there, and that’s enough. The vending machine thieves back off first, hands raised, muttering curses under their breath as they slink away. The drinkers follow, peeling off like rats sensing a storm.

  Creepy-looking officers. Dangerous-looking officers. A quick scan of their bodies reveals they have some pretty advanced cyberware, with completely bullet-proof armour, defence systems in place to ward off quick-hacks, ICE, in particular, and something called ‘Overclock Spinal Relay’. No idea what that is, and I certainly would not like to find out.

  My apartment is not too far from here. Just around the corner, and I’m there. I press my hand to the scanner-lock and it recognises my print even through the blood and dust. The door slides open and I step inside. It’s nifty, spacious enough. To the left, my bed is tucked neatly into an alcove. To the right, a TV and a well-worn sofa sit opposite each other, the cushions slightly sunken from use. Down the middle: an en suite bathroom, small but functional. The kitchenette blends into the living space, compact counters joining wonderfully with the sofa area. Across from it, in a recessed nook, my computer hums, the screen dark except for a blinking status light. A couple of empty soda cans sit beside the keyboard, waiting to be cleared. Next to it, my wardrobe stands half-open with neatly folded clothes and a single, spare jacket hanging from a hook with some empty boxes underneath.

  Everything I need. Nothing less. Nothing more.

  I strip off my clothes and step into the en suite, letting the warm water wash away the blood, grime, and sweat. The pressure is good, steady, the temperature just right: not scalding, not icy, just that perfect middle ground that soaks into tired muscles and makes the world feel a little less cruel. I lather up, the scent of bergamot filling my nostrils, something cheap I’d grabbed from the convenience store across the street but nice enough to almost make me forget the last few hours. Steam rises, fogging up the glass, blurring the edges of my vision. I reach for the shampoo, flip the cap open, squeeze a handful onto my scalp, then place it back. The second I start scrubbing, I swear, it’s heaven. I could stand here all day, just letting the heat sink in, letting it all melt away.

  Then, a sound.

  Something low. Muffled. Buzzing.

  Is that...?

  My phone. It’s ringing.

  I groan, blindly shuffling, sliding the shower door open. Water drips onto the floor as I fumble for my towel, rubbing just enough from my eyes to see, but the moment I step out, my foot catches on the carpet.

  I go down hard.

  A grunt, a muffled curse, palm slapping against the floor as I scramble back up, still dripping, still half-dazed, still very much naked as I stagger towards my desk. I grab my phone, flip it over, squint at the screen.

  Fingers.

  I swipe right to accept the call, but my thumb is still wet, so I wipe it off the towel, then swipe again. The call connects, and I put it on speaker. “Yeah, Fingers?” I say, a little agitated.

  “You doin’ alright, Mono?” she says.

  “Just about.” I place the phone on the desk and pick up the towel, drying my face off completely. “You called at a pretty bad time.”

  She chuckles, her voice cutting out slightly. “Why’s that?”

  “The shower, I was in it.”

  “Had a feeling,” she says. “I can hear the water running in the background.”

  I groan, rubbing the towel through my hair. It’s awkward trying to have a conversation while dabbing at my face, especially with soap still dripping into my eyes. I press the towel against my brow and hold it there, exhaling. “Let me guess,” I say, voice muffled through the fabric. “You want to meet up?”

  “An hour from now,” Fingers says matter-of-factly. “You got a car, right?”

  I do. A basic, nothing-special model. Old, but reliable, one of the few things in my life that still works when I need it to. Carburettor-fed, gas-guzzling, built before self-driving rigs took over the streets. No fancy AI, no remote overrides, just a hunk of metal and rubber that responds when I tell it to. Low-end security, no autopilot, barely any onboard systems beyond a cracked digital dash. The kind of ride no one would bother to steal, and if they did, I’d probably find it abandoned five blocks away, still running.

  “Yeah,” I say, shaking out the last bit of water from my hair. “Where? Old Mill, I’m guessing?”

  “You call it the Old Mill?” Another chuckle. “HQ. Dash Two. As always. Whole group's gonna be there. No pizza this time. Very important you show up.”

  “No pizza?” I feign offense, pressing the towel to my face. “Then what the hell’s the point?”

  “See, this is why no one trusts you with logistics. You think a tactical op is just an excuse to eat like a teenager.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I work better with a full stomach.”

  “Then grab a snack on the way, because this ain’t that kind of meet.” Her tone dips just a little.

  “Christ,” I say. “Ever heard of a joke?”

  “Just be there, alright?”

  “I got it,” I say, sighing. “I'll be there. Just give me a minute, will you?”

  “Tick-tock, Mono,” she says. “Tick tickity tock. See ya around. Later.”

  The line goes dead.

  I walk away from the desk, throw the towel aside, and switch the water off. Then I go back, grab the towel again, and finish drying myself off. It’s a far enough drive from the apartment complex, about half an hour, so I best get a move-on right away.

  I throw on a pair of stretchy cargo pants, combat boots, and a white, sleeveless vest. Then I slide into a slim winter jacket, because outside the temperatures have dropped to the low forties. That’s the sort of cold I don’t like.

  I catch the elevator down to the first floor, just above the pit-fighting grounds, and make my way to the parking lot, if you could even call it that. It’s not some neat, paved expanse with painted lines and security cameras keeping watch. This place is a half-collapsed, oil-stained cavern where the ceiling sags under a tangle of rusted pipes and stuttering bulbs that cast more shadow than light. The ground is cracked concrete, pocked with rain puddles and tire ruts so deep they could swallow a small dog. Good thing this is an animal-free zone.

  I spot my car near the back, tucked between a black transport van and a stack of discarded steel beams that look as though they could come crashing down with the wrong breeze. In front of the van, there are plenty of brown boxes.

  And everything is quiet, empty, but then I hear something, someone.

  A tall figure steps out from behind the transport van, moving with an easy, practiced sway as he swoops down to gather the scattered boxes. He carries them towards the side door, one after another, like he’s done this a hundred times before.

  It’s him. The man from the courtyard.

  I pull out my car key, press the button on top. My car beeps open, side mirrors unfurling with a soft mechanical hum. He doesn’t notice me—too focused—but now that I’m up close, I get a better look at him. Older than I thought. Late sixties, maybe. Long face, strong chin, even longer nose. Something in his features feels weathered, not just by age, but by time, by life.

  I know I’m on a tight schedule. I know I should keep moving.

  But against all reason, I stop.

  “You need a hand?”

  He glances up from behind the van’s hood, eyes sharp, assessing. Then, in a deep, rasping voice, he says, “If you wouldn’t mind. I’m not holding you up from work, am I?”

  I smile. “Not at all. I’m, uh... I’m actually unemployed, so. Just got some errands to run.”

  He exhales a short chuckle. “Well, that’s okay. I wouldn’t mind the help. The city could always use more helping hands.”

  There’s something about the way he says it. Steady, knowing. He’s seen enough of the world to mean every word.

  I start helping him pack the boxes away in the side of his transport van. They’re somewhat heavy, but they’re closed off so I can’t see what’s inside. I presume they share similar qualities to what I saw in the courtyard earlier.

  “You’re new around here,” the man says. “I don’t think I’ve seen you. Green hair is a unique colour.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I just rented a place out a month ago. It’s nice.”

  “Well, that’s good,” the man says. “Most people who show up here complain about the landlords. Just pay your rent and you’ll be in their good graces.”

  I laugh, more out of politeness than anything. “I believe it. Have you seen those people up there? Drunks? Junkies?”

  He sighs. “Yeah. Unfortunately, it’s been like that for some time now.”

  I pick up another box, manoeuvring it the way I always do: with a little patience and a lot of practice. Sliding my left hand underneath, I press it tight against my chest, using my body as leverage to balance the weight. It’s not graceful, but it works. The trick is in the angle: tilt too far forward, and the whole thing slips; lean too far back, and I lose control. My shoulder takes some of the strain, my core does the rest. I’ve gotten used to it. Had to. You learn fast when there’s no other option.

  “You been here long?” I ask, shifting the box into the van, careful not to let it topple.

  “Me?” he says. “Well, I don’t actually live here. I just stop by to drop off supplies for the kiddos.”

  “So, I take it you’re a delivery driver?” I say.

  He shakes his head. “Not at all.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “So, who owns this stuff?”

  “Well, these boxes are full of material one of the landlords gave me,” he says. “I make tools, you see. And he lets me have any spares. But if you’re talking about the boxes from earlier, well, I bought that stuff. The kids here, they’re struggling just as much as the parents. I work a little shop down the road, and whenever I can, I pick up bits and pieces.”

  I smile again. “So, you’re just an awesome person?”

  He guffaws. “Not at all. I’m old. I just think if you can help, you should. Simple as that.” He lifts another box, setting it into the van. “World’s got enough people looking the other way. Figured I’d try being one of the few that doesn’t.”

  I nod wordlessly, and he lifts the last of the boxes into the van, then slides the door shut, clapping the dust from his hands.

  “And what’s your name, young lady?”

  “Rhea,” I say. “Rhea Steele. And you?”

  “Silas Harbor,” he says. “If you ever want to help out, you can find me in booth seven, Lower Elm Street. Or, if you need anything. I know you said you’re out of work at the moment, but keep your head on your shoulders. The city’s got a way of grinding people down, making them feel small, making them think they don’t matter. But that’s a lie. You matter. What you do, what you choose to do—that matters.” He leans against the van, crossing his arms, watching me. “The world doesn’t need more people tearing it apart. It needs people who hold it up, even in the smallest ways.”

  I take a moment to digest his message, to try understand where his words are coming from, and something deep in my subconscious feels it: a place of experience, where he’s seen the world at its worst, people at their worst. “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll, uh, I’ll remember that. Nice to meet you, Silas.” I offer my hand and he shakes it. He has a soft grip; there’s no force behind it.

  “I’ll be sure to remember your name,” Silas says. “Rhea Steele. You remind me of someone.”

  “Oh yeah? Of who?”

  “An old friend of mine,” he says. “The scent you’re wearing. Bergamot. My, the world was hard on her.”

  “What happened?” I ask, curious.

  He takes a deep breath and steps over to the driver’s-side door. “I’m afraid that’s not my story to tell. But I thank you very much, Rhea. I’ll be seeing you around. You have a lovely day.” He pops the door open.

  I watch as he climbs into the van, moving slow, like a man who carried more than just boxes. He gives me one last nod before pulling away, the van rolling off, leaving the parking lot.

  I stand there for a moment, the scent of bergamot still clinging faintly to my skin, and wonder if the world’s already decided to be hard on me, too.