Lysa was in trouble.
Santo Domingo usually offered more than enough clueless marks to scrape coin from, but today the streets worked against her. Fewer people, sharper eyes. Every pocket seemed to be moving away. Every angle felt wrong.
It wouldn't have bothered her if the money were for herself. The last few years had taught her to make do with what life gave her. Bread, some water, perhaps the occasional roof, and she was set.
But ever since she had "joined" that cursed gang, going back empty-handed wasn't an option.
The deadbeats even had the audacity to expect her to return with a specific amount. One bronze at first. Then one silver. Now nearly one gold. It was ridiculous.
Lysa moved through the alleys, the question circling in her head.
"What is it even for?" she muttered. "Not like it's comfortable. The base is a mess."
A stray dog sniffed a broken crate. Farther ahead, a woman dumped gray water into the gutter, the splash catching Lysa's ankles. She swallowed a few unpleasant words. Getting beaten by the woman's children wasn't on her agenda.
"Certainly not protection," she continued, grumbling. "If I get caught by another gang, I'm done for."
She stopped by a wall where someone had carved their name.
"Bearz role, very literate," the barely literate girl muttered to herself.
She moved on, eyes scanning passersby. A patrol trudged past the far intersection. She waited, then slipped across the street.
"Not even good food," she muttered. "I'm stealing dozens of bronze coins just to eat old chicken and drink apple cider if the boss feels generous."
Another cart rolled by, driver shouting prices no one would pay. Lysa kept walking, hands in pockets. She needed a mark. And she needed one fast.
As if the saints were listening, she spotted a man sleeping in an alley. For a moment, guilt knotted her stomach. Stealing from the homeless was a line she wouldn't cross. The streets hadn't been kind to her, and she wasn't about to make someone else suffer.
But closer inspection changed her mind. Clothes, perfume—he could have passed for a noble. Mud aside.
"Someone is curious," he said, making her step back.
"Relax! Do I look like I can do anything right now?" he added, and something in his tone convinced her to listen. For now.
I'm gonna regret this.
"You an urchin?" the man asked. Lysa simply nodded.
"Boss told you not to come back until you bring much, much coin, didn't he?"
"Do I look dumb to you?" she shot back, offended.
"Apologies. Most urchins aren't exactly academics," he said, still sitting on the ground.
"Well, I'm not most," she snapped, still bristling.
"Good. Because I need your help," he said.
That stopped her cold. Help? What could she possibly give him? Men dressed like that usually weren't worth the trouble they caused.
Letting him finish would have been the sensible thing. But she wasn't sensible anymore. Sense didn't put food on the table in her line of work.
Forget about it.
Before he could add another word, she turned and ran, leaving the odd fellow to his mud.
After running away for a few minutes, Lysa came to a stop by the side of an apartment building to catch her breath. Thankfully, the man hadn't seen her face. That meant she wasn't in as much trouble as she feared. Approaching someone dressed like that had never been a good idea, no matter how tempting it seemed.
Tired, hungry, and desperate, she pushed off the wall and made her way toward a tavern. The place wasn't known for being welcoming, but it offered one last chance: cards.
Luckily—or perhaps unluckily—for her, as soon as she went near the table where a few men were playing cards, an old drunk spotted her.
"Lysa! Here to make up for today?" he said, laugh rough and wheezy, the kind that made her want to punch him in the mouth.
No such luck. She was scrawny, barely sixteen, and a punch from her wouldn't even leave a mark. Besides, he didn't deserve it. Annoying, yes, but he meant well.
"You know the boss," she said as she slid into the seat across from him.
"You don't have to keep rolling with him, you know," another drunk mumbled from the corner of the table.
"Juan, you're the last person I'm taking advice from about this," she shot back, and the others at the table laughed, clearly entertained by her audacity.
"I'm serious, Lysa, you're wasting your time in that gang."
"Yeah, because you can just retire from a gang," she said flatly.
"I didn't say that. I'm saying you could maybe—"
"Join a stronger one?" she cut in. "Yeah. Like they would take me."
"You can read, and maybe count and stuff," the first drunk offered, trying to make a point.
Lysa felt her patience fray. She couldn't fault them for thinking like that, though. How could they know how a gang really ran if they'd never been in one? How could they understand how hard life could get when they could afford to stumble into a tavern and get drunk every day? She knew there wasn't much difference between them in terms of money. But at least they had a roof over their heads, a family, a job. She had none of it.
Not anymore, anyway.
A few rounds later, she realized she wasn't going to make the amount needed anytime soon. She gave up, bid her farewells, and left the tavern in a daze. That had been her last chance, and now that she'd blown it, there was no way she could return to the base.
The boss had been clear: if you didn't bring enough, you didn't eat, and you didn't spend the night there. Winter would have made that terrifying. But now, with summer approaching, Lysa cut her losses and started searching for an empty alley.
It took a while, but she eventually found a corner partially shielded by boxes—enough to hide behind for the night. The ground and wall weren't a bed, not by any stretch, but she had no choice. At least the spot was dry and calm.
Looking back, she realized her mother had never let her roam freely, much less wander the streets at this hour.
"Yet here I am, sleeping in an alley like I often do", she muttered bitterly, before closing her eyes.