Sunlight's a real traitor - pierces through the truck's window, stabs right in my eyes. I snap awake, every part of me screaming. Ribs feel like they've been used for a battering ram; hell, they were. Wolf-girl's shoulder hit like a freight train. I sit up, grunt through the pain. My elbow's singing a high note, damn near folded the wrong way last night. Stomach's in knots, too, can still taste the bile. Ankle's swollen, throbbing with every heartbeat.

Hate it. I hate tasting bile.

I fumble for my burner phone, the cheap plastic feeling like ice against my swollen fingers. The screen's cracked to hell, but it does its job when I punch in the doc's number. It rings, grating in the quiet dawn.

"Yeah?" The doc's voice is groggy, thick with sleep and annoyance.

"It's Aaron. I need you to open up," I hack out the words, tasting the crust of dried spit in my mouth.

"The fuck you do at this hour?" He's pissed. I can almost hear him trying to light a cigarette through the phone.

"Got into a bit of a scrap. Need some patching up," I say.

"Jesus, Aaron, it's seven in the fucking morning. Who'd you piss off this time?" There's the flick of a lighter, a deep inhale.

"Just open the damn place up, Doc. I'm bleeding all over my truck's seats."

There's a pause, then a heavy sigh. "Fine. But you're paying extra for this shit. Wake me up this early… You better be half-dead."

"Might just be. Thanks, Doc," I say, but he's already hung up.

I shove the phone into my pocket and start the engine, the doc's place only a few dirty blocks away. Gotta move. Gotta get fixed up. Doc's waiting; he don't like to be kept waiting. I swing my legs out the truck, set my boots on the asphalt. The ground's littered with trash, the air smells like piss and old grease. Classic Philly backstreet charm.

I check my shoulder in the side mirror - it's a mess. Wolf girl didn't just bite, she tried to take a damn piece with her. It's a nasty set of holes, blood dried over the bandages I slapped on. It's gonna scar; chicks dig scars, or so they say. I could almost fit a pinky in one of them. They've started to ooze weird shit all over my bandages too. Don't like that.

But first, I gotta deal with the now. I reach for the door, steel myself. Every move's calculated, can't show weakness, not even when the streets are empty. This ain't just about getting patched up. It's about staying on top, staying alive.

Doc's place is a short drive away, gotta get there before the pain decides I'm done. Or the bacteria. I start the truck; the engine roars to life, doesn't give a damn about my condition. Good. I need something around here that's still got some fight. Not like those chumps. Can't believe I had to bandage them up with a fucking broken arm. Bunch of babies.

Good-for-nothings. Why do I even bother with this gang shit if they're always gonna fucking fail me?

As I drive, I plan my next move. Wolf and Safe - they're gonna pay. But I can't be stupid about it. Need to be smart, need to be strategic. Can't let the bosses think I'm slipping. I'm still the man in this part of town.

The veterinarian's sign comes into view. Neon's flickering, barely hanging on. TAC NY AN AL HO PITAL. Was funny exactly once, before I got backhanded. Not a mistake you make twice. I park up, kill the engine, and drag myself out. This is just step one. I'm down, but not out. Not by a long shot.

Doc's office is a joke, really; looks more like a butcher's backroom than a place for healing. The light's too bright, flickers like it's on life support. I push the door; it creaks, bitching about the early hour. I step in, the smell of antiseptic slaps me hard, almost covers up the underlying stench of blood and fear. Almost.

Doc's there, behind his cluttered desk, looks like he's been dragged backward through hell. He squints at me like I'm the final boss in a bad day's game. "Jesus, kid, you get in a fight with a greyhound?" he grunts, no love lost between us.

I ignore the jab. "Just fix me up," I growl, tossing a wad of emergency cash on his desk. It's dirty money, but it talks cleaner than I ever could.

He sighs, heavy like the world's on his shoulders, and motions me to the stainless-steel table. I climb up, each movement a fresh circle of hell. He starts with my shoulder, prods at it like he's testing fruit for ripeness. I bite back curses, focus on the peeling, off-white paint on the ceiling. Anything but the pain.

His hands are steady, though. Got to give him that. He cleans the wounds with a practiced apathy, swipes of cotton soaked in something that burns like fire. "You're clearly've got fractures," he mumbles, mostly to himself.

He wraps fresh bandages, tighter than a miser's fist, around my shoulder. Then comes the splints for my ribs and elbow - clinical, efficient. No bedside manner, just the cold touch of metal and the stretch of tape.

He doesn't bother with the ankle; just nods toward the door. Well, that's not true. He wraps that shit up. "Go get a boot from the CVS," he orders. "Take bed rest for a week." He pauses, eyeing me like he can see the gears turning in my head. "Ideally, two months, but I have a feeling you've got shit on your plate."

Damn right I do.

He hands me a bottle of antibiotics, the label peeling at the edges. "Take these, unless you want to end up losing that arm." It's a threat and a promise all in one.

I slide off the table, every fiber of my being protesting. "What do I owe you?" I ask, because even in the gutter, there's a code.

"You already paid me, numbnuts," he replies, gesturing to the wad of cash I threw on his desk.

I try not to screw my face up in what would count as embarrassment on a lesser person.

He ushers me out the door.

The drive to the CVS is a blur of pain and determination. I park haphazardly, use the truck door to haul myself up. Inside, the fluorescent lights are too bright, the aisles too long. The workers are staring at me, up until the point where I look them in the eye. They go frightened like dogs. I find the boot, an ugly, bulky thing that promises stability at the cost of dignity.

At the checkout, the clerk gives me a once-over, her expression a mix of pity and revulsion. I don't need her sympathy. I slap cash on the counter, more than the boot's worth. I don't wait for change.

Back in my truck, I wrestle the boot on over my swollen ankle. It's a small fortress of Velcro and plastic, a laughable defense against the storm that's brewing. But it'll have to do.

I head back to my place, a squat building that's seen better days. The stairs are a bitch, each step a negotiation between willpower and agony. I make it to my apartment, key the door open, and step into the sanctuary of shadow and silence.

The place is a mess, but it's my mess. Clothes strewn like casualties of war, dishes piled high in the sink, an ashtray that's a miniature graveyard. I don't care. I collapse on the mattress. I pull the comforter between my legs and yell until my throat is hoarse. Probably bothering one of the bums that lives in the basement. Fuck 'em.

I pop an antibiotic, dry swallow. Bed rest for a week, he said. A week's an eternity in my line of work. I can't afford the luxury of healing.

But my body's got other ideas. Pain's a constant drumbeat, a reminder that I'm human, after all. I close my eyes, let the darkness take me. Just for a moment, I tell myself. Just to catch my breath.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

When I open my eyes again, the room's dipped in the golden hue of late afternoon. I've slept the day away, a day I couldn't afford to lose. But the pain's a dull roar now, background noise I can work with. Wolf and Safe - they think they've won, but this is just intermission. I'll come back for the finale, and it'll be a showstopper.

----------------------------------------

I wake to the scrape of paper on my cheek, a harsh kiss to start the day. My eyes snap open, the room swims into focus - my pit of an apartment, with its peeling paint and the stink of old takeout. The envelope's white against the dirty floorboards. I don't need to pick it up to know who it's from.

I sit up, bones cracking like a fistful of dry twigs. The pain's a dull roar in my gut, a souvenir from Wolf's handiwork. A month in the lurch, maybe three weeks if I'm being nice, and my body's still stitching itself together. I grope for the envelope, flip its flap with a thumb. Inside, a single slip, the address printed with no-nonsense clarity. A summons. My gut twists, but I crush the feeling down. Can't show weakness, not even alone.

A shower's out of the question; the pipes rattle like they're coughing up a lung. Instead, I splash water on my face from the sink, each drop stinging the cuts that aren't healed right. Keep picking them open. Gravel scrapes across my skin, turning into scars over time. The mirror's a cracked liar, showing me a face that's seen better days, one that's gonna see worse today.

I drag on jeans and a shirt. They stick to my skin, still carrying the sweat of yesterday's nightmares. Then, I reconsider. Boss would prefer nice clothes, so I make myself naked and put on my special occasions. My shoes are by the door, one lying on its side like it's given up. I force my feet into them, ignore the protest from my ribs. I boot my ankle. The other shoe's gone unused.

The drive over, my truck's engine complains almost as much as my body. Every jolt in the road is a jolt through my spine.

I park outside the building. It's one of those places that looks like it's never seen a happy day. The bricks are tired of holding each other up. I take the steps one at a time, my hands in my pockets, gripping the roll of bills. It's not much, but it's all I got - emergency cash, scraped from the hidey-holes in my ride.

The door's heavy, made to keep people out, or maybe in. The hallway's quiet as a crypt. My boots are loud against the linoleum, the sound too bright, too sharp. I reach the door at the end, steel myself. This is it. I know the game. The Coyotes are done, scattered to the wind. It's just me now, walking into the lion's den with nothing but my skin and a pocketful of desperation. Some underlings. Your tools are only as good as their ability to handle pressure, and they snapped. Useless garbage. Nonfunctional. Broken wires.

I don't need them. I can light shit on fire with my fucking eyes.

I knock. The door opens like it's as tired as I am. The room beyond is dim, the windows grimy. The air's heavy with the scent of old cigarettes and older mistakes. They're waiting for me. I can feel their eyes, weighing me up like butchers eyeing meat.

I step inside, the door closing with the sound of finality. Click. It locks. Click 2. My heart's a drummer gone mad, but my face is stone. Let them see what they want. I'm Aaron McKinley, and I ain't dead yet. Not by a long shot.

The room's a bad joke with no punchline. Polygraph and Tyrannosaur, a pair of mismatched bookends, are propped up in front of me. Polygraph is all business, the kind of man who'd sell you a bullet with your own name on it and call it customer service. His suit's so sharp it could cut the tension, but it doesn't. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but I can feel them on me, cold and calculating.

Tyrannosaur's something else. Big man, big print, big joke. He's all muscle and no finesse, draped in green and leopard like a Christmas tree gone to seed. He's nearly twice Polygraph's size but half as intimidating. I keep my mouth shut about that. Mr. Nobody's absence hangs in the air, a silent question nobody's answering.

"Where's Mr. Nobody?" I ask, my voice steady.

Mr. Polygraph peels off his shades, his eyes dead as the glass they're named for. "That's none of your fucking business," he says, and the room gets a couple degrees colder.

I shrug, play it cool. "Had to ask."

He leans forward, a motion that's all business. "Where's my money, Aaron?"

I shove a hand into my pocket, pull out the wads of cash. It's all I've managed to scrape up. I throw them at Polygraph's feet, a disrespect that's more about my own anger than his. The bills scatter, not enough to cover the debt, not nearly enough.

He looks at the money like it's dirt. "Where's the rest of my fucking money, Aaron?"

I lock my jaw, force the words out. "Don't know. Some bitches stole it."

His chuckle's dry, like he's heard every excuse in the book twice over. "And why didn't you get it back?"

The room's close, walls pressing in with the weight of his question. I think about lying, making up a story that paints me in a better light. But Polygraph would see through that shit like glass. "They got lucky," I say instead. It's close to the truth.

"Lucky," he repeats, drawing the word out like it tastes bad. "Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. You were neither prepared nor opportunistic."

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, taste blood. "I had it under control," I say. "They played dirty."

Polygraph leans forward. "This city is dirty, Aaron. If you can't play in the mud, you're no use to us."

I feel the sting of the rebuke. He's right, in a way, but I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. "Next time, I'll be ready."

"Next time?" The scoff is a knife twist. "You think you're getting a next time?"

My throat's tight, but I push the words out. "I deserve it."

Tyrannosaur snorts, a rumble from the back of the room. "Deserve's got nothing to do with it."

There's a dance here, one wrong step and you're off the floor. "I can get it back," I tell them, a bluff maybe, but what choice do I have?

Polygraph's quiet for a moment, then: "You'll get us something better."

The words hang between us, an offer or a sentence. I don't know which. "What?"

"You heard me." Polygraph's standing now, and even without seeing his eyes, I know I'm being measured, weighed. "You'll get us something better. Make up for your… shortcomings."

I nod, once, hard. "I can do that."

"Do it or don't," Polygraph says. "But fail, and the next suit you'll be seeing will be made of pine."

It's not a threat. It's a promise. I know the stakes. I nod again. "I understand."

Tyrannosaur's laugh is a grunt. "Do you? Because I don't think you understand shit."

I square my shoulders. "I understand enough."

Polygraph's silent, then he nods. "You've got one chance, Aaron. Don't fuck it up."

The room's cold, colder than it should be. I'm sweating though, a sheen that's got nothing to do with the heat. I'm out of chances, out of time. But I'm not out of the game. Not yet.

I turn, head for the door. My steps are even, measured. I can feel their eyes on my back, but I walk straight, walk tall. Aaron McKinley doesn't bend. Not for them, not for anyone.

I reach for the door, ready to leave this place behind, but it doesn't budge. A lock clicks somewhere on the other side, a sound that's too final. Tyrannosaur's chuckle rumbles through the room, and my spine stiffens. This isn't over.

"What gives?" My voice is steady, but there's a razor edge of caution now. "I made my promise."

Polygraph's still as death, but his voice carries, smooth and sharp. "A promise isn't enough, Aaron. Where's the motivation? How do I know you won't skip town?"

One of the flunkies drags over a fold-out table, the metal legs screeching against the concrete floor like nails on a chalkboard. The sound makes my teeth clench. Tyrannosaur, a veritable mountain of flesh, grabs my wrist. His fingers are sausages wrapped in rings, his grip iron. He slaps my hand on the table, spreading my fingers out.

Polygraph's hand dips into his pocket, comes out with a utility knife. The blade catches the dim light as he flicks it open, a sliver of death in his palm. "You know what Yubitsume is, Aaron?" he asks, but he's not looking for an answer. "The Japanese, honorable people, they understand that words are wind. When you screw up, you've got to feel the apology in your bones."

The knife hovers over my pinky, the point kissing the knuckle. I can almost feel the slice before it happens. "When someone in the Yakuza fucks up, they show their sincerity. They let their boss take a piece of them."

I'm staring into Polygraph's hidden eyes, my own wide open and unblinking. He's close enough that I can smell the mint on his breath, totally unlike the stench of fear that's starting to bloom in my gut.

"If you think you're about to get clever, try to light me up," he says, his voice a low threat, "you'll lose more than a pinky."

I'm playing it cool on the outside, the picture of a man resigned to his fate. But inside, my mind's a riot, a caged animal clawing at the bars. I can't show it. Can't give them the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. But fuck, I don't want to lose a piece of myself to these vultures.

Polygraph leans in, the knife's edge now pressing, insistent against my skin. I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead, each drop a silent scream. The room's too hot, the air too thick, laced with the metallic tang of fear and the acrid burn of my own rising panic.

The pain hasn't even started, and already I can feel it, a phantom bite that's eating away at my composure. My heart's a drum solo, fast and offbeat, pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I think about pulling away, about smashing Tyrannosaur's face in, about grabbing the knife and showing them how I deal with threats.

But I don't move. Can't move. Because I know how this goes. I'm in their world now, by their rules, and the only way out is through the pain.

Polygraph's talking still, a lecture about honor and consequences. I'm not listening. I'm watching the knife, watching the way the blade trembles with anticipation, or maybe it's Polygraph's excitement. He's enjoying this, the power, the control. He's a cat with a mouse, and I'm the mouse.

I take a breath, try to find that quiet place in my head, the eye of the storm where I can stand and endure. But it's chaos in there, a whirlwind of curses and plans and the hot, white noise of fear.

The knife moves, a small shift, but it's enough. The blade's edge is cold, a line of fire across my flesh, and I'm bracing for the cut, for the moment when I lose a part of me to these bastards. It's coming, and all I can do is wait and hate them for it. Wait, and hate, and plan.