Arthur's stomach growled as he walked home, the sky a heavy gray smudge over the city. The twenty that used to live in his pocket was gone, replaced by an old receipt and two coins that wouldn't get him even a piece of stale bread.
He had found odd jobs before—carrying bricks at construction sites, washing windows at old shops—but they never lasted. People didn't like the way he looked. They never said it out loud, but he could feel it in how quickly they dismissed him.
Today, though, a man in a greasy jumpsuit outside a half-hidden garage had eyed him differently.
"You know how to keep your mouth shut, kid?"
Arthur had nodded.
"Good. Come back tomorrow morning, early. We start at five. Don't be late."
He hadn't asked what the job was. He couldn't afford to.
---
The next morning, Arthur was at the shop before the sun. The man—Jared, he learned—gave him gloves, a wrench, and no further instructions. Just a nod toward a half-dismantled car in the back corner of the dimly-lit garage.
Arthur wasn't a mechanic, but he wasn't stupid either. He watched. He listened. And he kept quiet.
Day after day, he returned.
The work was hard. Grease stained his skin no matter how hard he scrubbed. His fingers ached. His shoulders burned. But every night, Jared handed him cash—real cash. Hundreds. By the end of the first week, Arthur had more money than he'd ever seen at once.
Elsa noticed the difference quickly.
"You smell like metal and burnt oil," she teased as he entered, setting down a bag of groceries—real food, with meat and rice and fruit.
"Better than smelling like hunger," he replied.
She smiled, but her brow creased. "What kind of garage pays that much for stripping old cars?"
Arthur hesitated.
"Arthur."
He sighed and sat beside her. "It's not... a normal garage. They use the shop as a front. At night, they bring in stolen cars. We strip them for parts, wipe the plates, take out the trackers. Then the pieces get sold off to different buyers. I don't steal them. I just... help tear them down."
Elsa didn't speak right away.
"You think I'm a criminal?" he asked, defensive.
"I think you're doing what you think you need to," she said gently. "But promise me something."
"Anything."
"Don't let this become your life. Use it to get somewhere else. Somewhere better."
Arthur looked down at his oil-stained hands. "I will. I promise."
---
Over the next few weeks, the money kept coming. Arthur paid their rent two months ahead. He bought Elsa a second-hand radio and even a cheap smartphone loaded with audiobook apps and voice commands. Her laughter the first time she ordered the phone to tell her a joke lit up the room.
"You deserve more," he said one night, watching her curl up with a blanket and a crime novel through the phone's speaker.
She tilted her head. "So do you."
---
But with the money came danger.
Jared had warned him to stay quiet. "You talk, you disappear. That simple."
One night, Arthur stayed late, finishing up on a high-end sports car. It had taken hours just to deactivate the alarm. As he reached under the dashboard, he noticed something odd—a blinking light buried deep behind the console.
Tracker.
"Jared," he called. "You missed one."
Jared rushed over, pale and sweating. "If this was sold with a live tracker, we're all done. Good catch."
They destroyed the piece on-site, smashing it and burning the casing. But Arthur didn't sleep that night. Not because of what he'd seen—but because of how calmly Jared had reacted.
Like he'd done it before.
Like he expected worse.
---
The next morning, Elsa noticed he hadn't touched his food.
"You didn't sleep."
"No."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He hesitated, then shook his head. "Not yet."
She reached across the table and took his hand.
"You're not alone, Arthur. Whatever this is... just remember, you don't have to carry it by yourself."
He squeezed her fingers lightly, grounding himself in the warmth of her presence.
That evening, as they sat watching the orange light filter through the window, she asked, "Have you thought about what you'll do with the money?"
"I want something real," he said. "Something mine. Something no one can take away."
She nodded. "Property. It's what my mother always dreamed of. Land, homes. Things that last."
Arthur thought of the broken buildings they passed on the way to the market. Forgotten lots. Empty apartments. Dead dreams waiting to be revived.
"Then I'll build something," he said. "For both of us."
And for the first time in his life, he meant it.