I blink. Shake myself. Right. Right. I have a reason. “I need a phone,” I say.
Misha stares at me for a long second. He scans me—shirt askew, no shoes, red-ringed eyes, bruises that haven’t faded. The hollow in my chest is so wide I think he might be able to see it.
He doesn’t ask why. He just watches like he’s waiting to see if I even know.
Misha steps out of the container with the slow, deliberate swagger of a man who’s never been rushed a day in his life. The door clicks shut behind him like a vault sealing, and he plants himself in front of me, arms crossed over his silk-clad chest, eyes gleaming with the kind of amusement that usually comes right before something gets broken.
“Phones come with price, little ghost,” he says, tone smooth as vodka and twice as dangerous.
I blink at him, heart hammering. My mouth’s already open. The words spill out before I can even process the shape of them. “Money. I got money—I can pay you anything you want, Misha. Please.”
His smirk unfurls like a goddamn cigarette drag. “Baby boy,” he drawls, licking the words slow, “I don’t need your money.”
I groan, dragging my hands through my hair, gripping tight at the roots because if I don’t do something, I’ll scream. “Oh my God. Whatever you want, just please, I need it. I need it now.”
Misha hums, tilts his head. Studying me like a starving man deciding which cut to eat first. “Anything I want, huh?”
“Yes!” I snap. Desperate. Already sweating. Already burning. “Yes, anything, I don’t give a fuck—just—please.”
He thinks for a second. Long enough to make me twitch. “Favor.”
I blink. “A favor?”
“Da. Whenever I want. No questions asked.”
…Fuck.
I should run. I should. Owing someone like Misha anything is the kind of mistake you only make once if you’re lucky. But I can’t think, I can’t feel anything but this gaping hole in my chest and the fire in my brain screaming for a voice I can’t stop hearing in dreams.
“Okay. Fine.”
Misha’s grin widens. “And thirty thousand dollars.”
I choke. “You said you didn’t want my money!”
He shrugs, infuriatingly casual. “I don’t. I just like the way you panic.”
I drag both hands down my face, groaning like my soul is leaving my body. Not that thirty grand would even touch my wallet—I could drop that on a dinner in L.A. without blinking. It's the principle. “Whatever!” I snap, vibrating with frustration. “Just give me the damn phone, Misha!”
Misha laughs, low and delighted, then finally—finally—reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, untraceable black phone. He flips it once between his fingers before holding it out to me like a bribe.
He doesn’t let go right away. “Just remember,” he murmurs, voice like velvet soaked in gasoline, “I will collect.”
I snatch the phone out of Misha’s hand like a goddamn lifeline, fingers trembling, and bolt without another word—barefoot, shirt riding up, sweat clinging to my spine like I’ve just been dragged through hell and still didn’t make it out clean.
“I’ll Venmo you!” I shout over my shoulder, not bothering to look back. I hear him laugh—dark and echoing—but I’m already gone, already sprinting back to my container like the demons are chasing me.
I slam the door shut behind me so hard the walls shake. Lock it. Slide the bolt across like that’ll actually keep anything out. My breath stutters. My hands shake harder. The phone’s already glowing in my palm like something sacred. I drop to the floor, bare knees scraping steel, and press my back against the door like I need something to hold me upright.
Then I start typing. My fingers fumble over the screen, logging in, trying to remember passwords, retracing paths I haven’t walked in weeks. I bypass everything else. No texts. No missed calls. No fucking social media. I go straight for the cloud. Straight for the drive.
And then—Meand Nathan.
I forget how to breathe for a second. The first photo loads slow—grainy and golden, from a night in Chicago, when we were pressed into the corner of a hotel bed and he’d taken the picture upside down just to get me laughing. I’m looking at him in it. He’s looking at me. And fuck, I’d give anything to go back to that second.
I swipe.
Another photo—me in his hoodie, face hidden, sitting in his lap in the back of the bus while he’s leaning down like he’s whispering something filthy in my ear.
