The apartment no longer feel the same now that he is gone.
Isaiah lingered just inside the door, hand resting on the lock. It was as if the room would shift if he stepped in deeper. Everything looked untouched. Nothing seemed out of place. Yet, the atmosphere felt absurd like some invisible hand had rearranged the space by just looking at the items around.
He gently locked the door behind him.
The first thing that hit him was the silence . Not the absence of sound; cars were still drifting by outside, and someone above him continued to pace. But it was a silence that felt heavy, deliberate, and observant. It didn't hasten him at all.
He threw his backpack by the couch and wiped his face with both hands. The man's voice echoed in his mind, disoriented but clear. Calm. Steady. Never raised. Never rushed.
You won't ever have to worry about this anymore.
Isaiah chuckled softly, "Yeah," he muttered to no one. "Sure."
Old habits led him to the kitchen, already expecting the familiar disappointment of an almost-empty fridge. He pulled the door open and stopped in his tracks.
It wasn't stocked full enough to look like a grocery ad or some dream of endless supplies, but it was… adequate. A carton of eggs. Bread. Real fruits and veggies. A container of leftovers that he didn't recall buying but somehow it felt familiar, as if it had always been there.
Enough to last. Enough to breathe.
He felt a knot in his chest.
He slammed the fridge door shut and leaned against the counter to steady himself. This didn't mean anything, he told himself. It couldn't. People mess up. Maybe his roommate no, his roommate had moved out two weeks ago without a backward glance, offering a shrug and half hearted apology and a promise to pay him back that never happened.
Isaiah checked his phone.
Two notifications lit up at the top of the screen, both from less than an hour ago.
The first was from the clinic he visited ages ago but never followed up with: copay processed. Balance settled.
The second was from the school portal.
Account status: pending. Hold lifted.
Not forgiven. Not wiped clean. Just… stabilized.
Isaiah sank down until he was sitting on the kitchen floor, his back against the cabinets, phone loosely held in one hand.
He hadn't signed anything.
That was the issue.
Staring up at the ceiling, he tried to calm his breathing. He thought about silence not just the lack of sound, but the kind that had feel. It was a silence you learned to interpret without anyone needing to teach you the rules. The pauses. The empty spaces. The moments when you realized the outcome had already been decided, and you were just being granted time to catch up.
People liked to think survival was neutral. That if you put in enough effort and stayed polite, things would even out. But Isaiah learned early on that balance was a myth. Someone always controlled it. Someone decided when the scales tipped.
He pulled himself up and wandered back into the living room. The couch creaked under him. His reflection in the darkened TV screen looked thinner than he remembered. Tired in a way that sleep couldn't fix.
His phone buzzed again.
Updates on his work schedule.
Two shifts cut. No reason given.
Isaiah closed his eyes.
A week ago, this would've crushed him. Sent him spiraling into calculations about hours, meals, and how long he could stretch the little he had. But now now it simply hovered there, muted by the quiet comfort seeping into his bones.
And that scared him more than panic ever could.
He recalled the offer once more. The wording. Protection. Stability. You won't have to think about this anymore.
It didn't sounded threatening. It didn't need to.
People sign contracts daily. Loan agreements. Lease renewals. Job paperwork crammed with clauses that no one bothers to read because it doesn't change the outcome. You sign because you need what comes next.
But this hadn't come with paper.
That felt worse.
Isaiah stood and grabbed his jacket. He needed fresh air. Movement. Something to remind himself that he still belonged to his own body.
Outside, the city hummed as it always did, indifferent and alive. Streetlights cast long shadows on the sidewalk. The cold nipping at his sleeves, sharp enough to keep him alert.
He walked without a clear destination, following his feet past shuttered stores and flickering signs. Usually, this was when he felt invisible just another body passing through, unremarkable enough to be overlooked.
Tonight, though, it felt different.
A car slowed as it passed him, engine idling a beat too long before drifting away. He told himself he was imagining things. That anxiety was just drawing lines between coincidences.
But when he crossed the street, someone further back mirrored his actions. Not too close, not aggressive just… there.
Isaiah's shoulders tensed.
Nobody approached him. No one spoke. No demands were made. The city didn't feel confined it opened up, subtly, as if paths were getting cleared without him asking.
Protected.
The word tasted odd on his tongue.
When he finally returned to his apartment, the weight settled into a dense, quiet heaviness. He stood at the door, key hovering just above the lock, and realized something he hadn't wanted to admit before.
The deal wasn't waiting for him.
It had already begun.
Inside, a small envelope sat on the counter. No logo. No handwriting. Just his first name, neat and precise.
Inside, there was a card.
Tomorrow. 9 p.m.
Be ready.
No threats. No listed consequences. Just certainty.
Isaiah perched on the edge of the couch, card twisting slowly between his fingers. He thought about hunger that hadn't shown up. About bills that had gone silent. How irresponsible it suddenly felt to reject the help that had already arrived.
When someone gives you everything you need, saying no starts to feel wasteful.
Meanwhile, across the city, in an office overlooking the same streets from far above, the man Isaiah had met earlier that night loosened his tie and shut the door behind him.
The room welcomed him with silence. Clean lines. Soft light. Control.
He set his jacket aside and walked over to the desk, where a single folder lay waiting. He didn't need to open it; he already knew what was inside. Instead, he reached for the pen beside it, holding it between his fingers.
Observation had always been his go to. Force was inefficient. Fear burned bright but quick. Gratitude, on the other hand, lingered.
He leaned back in his chair and reflected on the night. The timing. The balance of pressure and relief. Isaiah didn't said no. He also hadn't said yes.
Good.
People rush into cages when they feel chased. They walk into them willingly when they feel safe.
He tapped the pen lightly against the desk.
More distance, he decided. For now. Eyes without proximity. Protection without presence. Let the city gently teach the lesson.
Isaiah would return.
They always did.
He placed the pen down carefully, not to sign anything, but to remind himself to be patient.
Not all contracts require ink.
They just need time.