One stormy day on the eve of the new year, Earth had spit out a newborn into the crumbling house of an alcoholic father and an addict mother. Alexander Marcius wasn’t a genius, and he didn't have the childhood that others wanted. When he wanted to eat he plunged into freezing cold fountain waters and picked up nickels. Then he celebrated because he could afford the scraps of food his parents would sell him. If he wanted a bed to sleep in, he had to pay. If he wanted warmth, he had to pay. There was no trust or pity, and no love.

There were only negotiations.

Every day he had made a deal to extend his life another few hours. He wasn’t born a survivor. He was forged into one through a trial of fire.

Then, one day, the door to his parent's house opened and an elderly lady strode through the entrance, her eyes the colour of lightning.

Muriel Marcius found Alexander lying among a sea of beer bottles, the cheapest on the market. Her grandson’s skin was pallid and his golden almond eyes faint from hunger. His hair had grown thin from malnutrition, though she could still see her family’s tell-tale straight jaw and pronounced chin etched onto the sunken skin of his face. The bottles weren’t his and she recognised the foul smoke-filled stench of his father clinging to the frayed carpet.

The boy looked up at her warily. A single hand reached behind him toward a bottle, as though he were expecting a fight. Muriel put her hand up to assuage his doubts and show she came in peace, but it didn’t lower the animosity in his eyes.

Her worthless daughter and that drunkard of a son-in-law had done more damage to the child than she’d imagined.

“Who are you?” His voice reverberated across the room, deeper than a child of his early teenage years should have.

Muriel jolted in surprise. His eyes spoke of rebellion and his body screamed neglect, but his voice told her that he had fire, and spirit. He wasn’t asking her to entertain a request. He was giving her a command.

“I’m Muriel, your grandmother,” she said. “And I’ve come to take you away from this horrid place.”

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She wasn’t sure if she expected surprise, or joyous celebration, but she got neither. Instead, her grandson pursed his lips and stared at her with a calculating gaze.

“I have a grandma?” he grunted. "You do have ma’s eyes, but she said you were dead.”

“Your parents said a lot of things,” anger stirred in Muriel’s heart. “They also said you were being cared for and had a happy home. But let’s not talk about them. I had them sent away for a while to think over what they’ve done.”

His head perked up at her words, cautious hope flushing his face and color fluttering over his cheeks.

“You can do that?”

“I can do a lot of things,” Muriel allowed a small smile to cross her lips.

She had been told by others that her smile looked predatory, like a cat about to pounce on prey, but it was only when her grandson smiled in return that she truly believed it. His lips curled back, almost mocking, yet hopeful, and all she could think of was that she was facing a lion. A cub, to be sure, but the child of a lion could only ever be a lion.

He was perfect.

“Have you come to make a deal?” Dollar asked.

Muriel didn’t reply, and the boy coughed awkwardly as he saw the confusion in her eyes.

“That’s how we do things in our family, right? If I want food, I pay for it. If I want a bed for the night, I bargain with what skills I have.”

“My sweet child,” Muriel’s words swept across the room.

Her voice leapt over the bottles, and clambered under the needles, and the walls trembled at the anger held within it. It was a voice that had toppled enemies and allies alike and caused leaders across the world to shudder. Her grandson held steady, but he dared not move in front of her, and she quickly withdrew her emotions from her expression, putting on the poker face she usually kept. She was not quick to anger, and prided herself on her self-control, but his words had caused her exterior to crack.

“Come with me,” she said. “By the time I’m done you’ll never want for anything again. People will flock to you wishing for you to bargain. Others will hand you gifts on golden platters. When we’re done, you will rule the world.”

“Lady, you’re crazy.” The boy tilted his head toward her, and she caught a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

It was accompanied by a ferocious smile. Whether he was laughing at her, or at the new possibility that had been offered to him, she didn’t know.

“But I like that kind of crazy. So, give me a warm bed for now, and tomorrow we talk about ruling the world. I’ll even be well behaved if you throw in breakfast.”

A smile crossed Muriel’s lips, her grandson had no idea what she was offering him, or maybe he dared not hope, and so he negotiated.

“Deal.”

Muriel’s smile widened into a beaming grin, “welcome to the family, Alexander.”

“No, not Alexander. I hate that name.”

The boy shook his head vehemently.

“Call me Dollar.”