It was a slow day.
Not that there were fast ones.
Jules had been standing at the prep counter for twenty-seven minutes, folding napkins and reconsidering her life choices. The falafel shop smelled like scorched garlic and failed dreams. Her hoodie clung to her with a kind of emotional resignation, and the fryer hissed in the corner like it was tired of existing.
Across the shop, Lydia sat behind the till, chain-smoking like it was a side hustle. Her black hair was grown out, grey at the roots, but she still wore lipstick and hoop earrings like armor. You got the feeling she'd been a going concern once, and probably gorgeous. Now she just looked like someone who'd survived things you didn't want to ask about.
Her daughter Mia was slouched in a booth, still in her school uniform, pretending to do homework and scrolling through someone else's Instagram stories. She looked up once to glare at her little brother, then back down at her phone like the room didn't even exist.
Luca was throwing bottle caps at her from the counter. Each one landed a little closer to her drink.
Kostas was behind the half-wall kitchen, muttering to himself in Greek and stirring sauce like it insulted him.
Just another day at the Falafel hut. It was a Greek family running a falafel shop, which made exactly zero sense, but Jules had stopped asking questions like that months ago.
Jules didn't exactly fit in here, but she'd been showing up five days a week for almost a year now, which counted for something. Lydia sometimes gave her coffee without asking and once told her which corner of the walk-in didn't smell like death. That was basically affection.
They weren't friends. But there was something. Lydia glanced up from her lighter just then. Their eyes met for half a second. Jules gave her a tired half-shrug. Lydia exhaled smoke like punctuation and looked away.
She leaned against the counter in her oversized hoodie, smelling like garbanzo beans and yesterday's cigarettes. She was halfway through folding a napkin into a sad little triangle when the front door slammed open with a crack loud enough to shake the fluorescent lights.
Two men stepped in.
Black boots. Tactical vests. Not quite cops, and definitely not pizza delivery. More like they crawled out of a knockoff war game with real bullets. One was bald with a square jaw. The other had dark hair tied back, a tattoo curling up his neck like ivy. No one spoke.
Lydia gasped and dropped her lighter. Her cigarette kept burning. Her husband side stepped closer to Lydia, slowly, hands already raised.
"Hey guys—hey. This is a family place."
The men didn't react. The bald one grabbed something off the counter and tossed it aside. A saltshaker exploded across the tile. Jules stood still, half-hidden behind the order window. Forgotten. Invisible. A ghost in grease-stained sneakers.
The younger daughter shrank against the far wall, clutching her phone and slowly sliding down into a crouched position in the corner. But it was the boy, twelve years old, who drew attention. The bald one grabbed him by the back of his uniform, pushing him slowly, face-first, toward the fryer with terrifying ease. Luca's loose tie dipped into the oil, and the sharp stink of melting polyester bubbled up.
The parents exploded both at once, half in English, half in a flurry of Greek.
"He's a kid!"
"Let him go! Please God!" wept his mother
"You said no one would get hurt!"
The kid was crying now; screams curdled the air as his face got ever closer to the fryer.
Then he saw Jules.
She wasn't even sure if he recognized her at first. She barely interacted with him. But his wide, terrified eyes locked on her standing behind the counter, and he pointed. A small, shaking hand. No words.
Everything stopped.
Bald Guy turned. His eyes followed the boy's finger. Landed on Jules. Her gut dropped through the floor.
"Who's that?"
Lydia said nothing.
Mia pressed into the wall.
The father's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Who? Them?" he said.
Kostas gasped, glancing between the tattooed man and his screaming son, mind racing.
"That one. Talks to the drivers. Handles the numbers. That's the one you want."
Jules blinked.
Wait. What?
"A freelancer," the dad went on. "That Kid came to us. We—we didn't know what they were doing at first. They're keeping cash off the books, we caught 'em once, I swear—"
He was lying.
Lying fast.
Spinning a whole story out of fear and spit.
"You think we'd let our son near that if we knew? C'mon, we're not stupid."
The man with the tattoo was watching Jules now. His eyes were narrow. Calculating.
She didn't breathe. Then he moved. Big hands. Calloused fingers. He reached through the order window, hauled her out like a sack of dirty laundry. Jules scrambled as her hip hit the edge of the prep table. The guy shoved her toward the stools by the front counter, hard enough to knock the wind out of her.
"Sit."
His voice was low.
Not loud.
But final.
Jules sat.
The stool wobbled under her.
Everything smelled like sweat and burnt lies. She sat frozen, hands limp in her lap, heart trying to claw its way up her throat. The bald guy stared. The tattooed one flanked the door.
"The Kid runs the numbers" the father said, words tumbling over each other. "Talks to the drivers. Handles the cash when it's off hours. Please—God, we didn't know.
"Kostas—!" the mother hissed.
"What, you want them to take Luca instead?" he snapped.
The bald one pulled the boy away from the frier and tossed him.
He cried as hot grease and melted tie dripped down his white shirt, Luca clung to his mother's side, wide-eyed and wordless.
The bald guy narrowed his gaze at Jules, his meaty arms crossed. "Is that right?"
Jules blinked. "I—I fold napkins."
He didn't blink.
She tried again. "I box the falafel. Sometimes I take phone orders. One time I deep-fried my own finger by accident but still clocked out before going to urgent care. Does that sound like I'm orchestrating crime?" Her voice shaky and high. The buzz from her morning joint evaporating.
The tattooed guy tilted his head.
Jules kept talking — not because she had a plan, but because if she stopped, she'd scream.
"Do I look like I'm the brains?" she said, arms raised in mock presentation.
"I'm wearing sweatpants with a bleach stain and this hoodie says, 'Ask me about my dungeon'. I haven't done laundry in a week, and I only just found out our falafel come from a can."
The room stayed silent. Kostas looked at her with shame, he knew what he was doing.
Bald Guy looked her up and down slowly. Her hoodie was crooked from being yanked; the hood clung to the back of her neck like a sad cape, and her glasses were still askew. The tattooed guy squinted at her face like he wasn't sure what species he was dealing with, let alone gender.
They said nothing.
But they didn't laugh, either. They just… looked at each other. Something passed between them like a tiny shift in posture. Agreement.
"Shit," Tattooed Guy muttered under his breath. "What if they're right."
Lydia said nothing, didn't even look at her. Kostas stepped forward. "Do you have what you need?" His hands up, begging.
The bald guy turned.
"You should hope its true," he said, voice suddenly low and inhuman.
Then Baldy reached over and gave the kid a noogie.
Not friendly. Not funny. Just... wrong. Like he was playing house in a hostage video. They stumbled. The kid wailed. The mom pulled him closer. The father just stood there, eyes pleading.
"If you so much as whisper to anyone about this," the bald man said, leaning in close enough that sweat bloomed across the dad's face,
"we'll come back. And you won't be able to tell which pieces belonged to who. Do you understand?"
The dad nodded. Fast. Too fast. And that was it. Jules didn't even get a warning. Tattooed Guy lunged forward and grabbed her by the arm. His grip clamped down so hard her vision flared white.
"Ahh! Holy shit, okay, I'm coming! you don't need to—"
She barely got the words out before something rough, and chemical smelling yanked down over her head.
Everything went dark.
Boots thudded around her. Her feet scraped tile, then pavement.
And then:
Car door.
Metal.
Heat.
She was gone.
Her knees jammed up against something hard. A wheel well? Maybe a subwoofer. Her hip throbbed from being thrown, the ache sharpening every time the vehicle bounced or turned.
Her arm was on fire. Not broken, but close. Tattoo Guy had twisted it hard, just once, right before slamming the car door shut. It felt like someone had poured battery acid into the joint. She tried to shift, but her wrists were zip-tied behind her back. Her sweatpants, or what was left of them stuck to the sweat pooling behind her knees.
And the sack over her head? It reeked like blood. Not fresh, not clean, just old, coppery, stale. And gasoline. Not gas station gas but jerry can gas. The kind you see in movies right before the barn goes up in flames.
Don't think about that.
Too late.
Her brain was full of thoughts.
Every mob movie she'd half-watched in a haze of microwave falafel and bong smoke.
Guys getting dragged into the woods.
Guys getting dismembered and dissolved in bathtubs.
Guys with duct tape over their mouths while someone slowly opened a toolbox.
Was that going to happen to her?
Fingernails first? Teeth?
She didn't know which would be worse.
Breathe, Jules. Just fucking breathe.
She didn't cry.
She couldn't.
It was like her body knew there wasn't time for that. Crying was for people who still had the luxury of hope. Right now, all she had was the pounding in her skull and the sour churn of bile in her throat.
And the silence. That was the worst part.
There were more people in the van, and she could feel the shape of them. The occasional shift of weight, the sigh of breath but no one said anything. No one threatened her. No one hit her. No one explained. They didn't need to.
The van turned, tires crunching over gravel, and Jules felt her stomach fold in on itself. Not just from the turn but from the timing.
Too soon.
She thought she'd have more time.
More time to plan. To pray. To panic.
Instead: screeching brakes. A rough jolt.
And then—
A door swung open.
A large hand found her shoulder, the same one still throbbing, and shoved. No ceremony. No words.
She stumbled, half-tripped out of the van, her knees almost buckling on instinct. The bag stayed on her head, the zip ties still tight. The world outside was silent. Cold. Smelled like earth and rust and oil.
And then—
It hit.
Not a bullet. Not a fist. Her stomach turned inside out. She doubled over, instinct taking the wheel. She hadn't even eaten much; just a few fries someone left in the warmer and a stale falafel, but her body didn't care. The nausea ripped up through her throat so fast she didn't even get a full breath in.
And the bag was still on her head.
Have you ever thrown up in a bag?
While wearing it?
There was nowhere for it to go.
It filled the space between her face and the canvas like a hot, wet mask.
She gagged, choked, tried to pull back — but the bile was already there, coating her neck, soaking her hoodie, sliding down the collar of her shirt. She shot upright, gasping, the motion only forcing more of it downward. Her glasses shifted. Everything burned. Warm, liquefied falafel oozed down her chest. Behind her, one of the goons made a sound.
"Jesus fuck," the bald one muttered. "Fucking disgusting."
She tried to cough. Tried to breathe.
Ended up choking on the acid in her mouth and the heat under the bag.
Please pass out. Please pass out. Just fucking pass out.
But she didn't.
She stood there, shaking, humiliated.
Blind. Covered in vomit. Bound.
And fully aware that this was just the beginning.
And somewhere in the distance, footsteps approached.
Gravel turned to concrete.
Jules didn't know where they were. Didn't ask. She couldn't form questions anymore. Her legs moved because the goon's hand was a wall between her shoulder blades, pressing, always pressing. Then she tripped. Threshold. Step. Stairs.
No warning.
She hit the first step with both shins, the pain hot and instant, her whole body jerking forward.
Shit—fuck—
Before her head smacked the stairs, something yanked hard on her arms like a jolt, sharp and sudden stopping her fall. It was like being caught by a meat hook in reverse.
The zip ties pulled tight. Her shoulders screamed. Her wrists burned. One of the goons had caught her just enough to avoid breaking her face. Not out of kindness but to keep her intact.
He shoved again. Carpet. More stairs. Then — tile. A final push, and a door slammed behind her.
Jules hit the floor hard. Knees first. Then hip. Then shoulder.
And just as she started to turn her head, as she felt the bag came off.
Light stabbed her eyes. The world tilted. She collapsed onto a cool, spotless tile floor, white, maybe marble, maybe porcelain. This bathroom was too nice to belong to anyone who used zip ties like party favors. She didn't notice the high-end soaps or the chrome taps. Didn't see the ornate moulding or the glass shower enclosure.
All she saw was him.
The tattooed goon standing against the door, looking down at her like she was something scraped off his boot. He was holding the soiled bag between his fingers with a disgusted grimace
Her glasses were gone. Her vision blurred. Vomit glistened on the floor. Some still clung to her shirt.
Her hair in her face and mouth. Sweat, slime and terror. She begged her body to give up. To black out.
Please. Let this be over. Just fucking let it be over.
It wasn't.
She tried to rise. One elbow. One foot. Every movement a test of pain. Her limbs felt like they'd forgotten how to stack. He watched. Didn't move. Just let her struggle.
It took forever but by some fluke of biology and willpower, she made it upright. She was swaying, wheezing and trying not to gag. She could still taste it when she coughed.
"Take a shower."
His voice was flat. Final.
A low groan escaped her throat, involuntary. But Jules didn't move. He stepped closer. Not touching her but she could feel the weight of him behind the words.
"You smell like vomit and fear. Fix it."
He reached past her and turned on the tap, then left without another word. The door clicked shut behind him.
The shower ran but Jules didn't move. Her legs wanted to collapse but didn't. Her brain wanted to scream but couldn't find the signal.
She stumbled to the sink, her steps slow and uneven. The mirror loomed, fogged at the edges, but enough of her face was visible to take stock:
Red eyes.
Pale skin, flushed in blotches. Hair matted to her face. Vomit down her front, drying into stiff patches. No glasses. No expression.
She reached for the tap with shaking fingers, ran it cold, and cupped water to her mouth. It felt like her first drink in days.
She gagged the second it hit her stomach. Bent over the basin.
Wretched. Nothing came up this time except bile and dry heaving and spit.
Then silence.
Just the soft roar of the shower behind her. She didn't turn to it. She didn't move. She stood there, dripping and distant, letting the heat fog the room until it felt unreal — like she was looking at herself from outside her body.
Time slipped.
Cut To: Elsewhere in the House
A quiet room. Low light. A single desk. Nothing cluttered, everything placed with purpose. A figure leaned back in a leather chair, face unreadable. Short dark hair. Broad shoulders under a tailored vest. A laptop open. A long black slender cigarette burning. The smell of cloves hung in the air. One leg crossed over the other. Listening.
"So, they say the kid fingered them—"
"Literally, pointed?"
"Jesus."
"Right?"
"Family backed it up. They all acted like it was gospel."
Tattooed Guy stood near the door, arms folded.
"And you believe it?" the figure asked, their voice low, precise.
"It looks like a feral sewer rat in a hoodie. Barely spoke a full sentence that made sense."
The bald one snorted. "Fucking useless. I say we toss 'em in a river. Or mail pieces back to the deli." He grinned.
A pause.
Tattooed Guy waved his hand dismissively "...We're short-handed."
"Because Desi got picked up."
"Because Desi was a dumbass."
"Exactly. We don't have room for another."
Another beat.
"So, you're making this my problem?" the seated figure said. "Fine, bring then to me, I'll talk to them, myself."
The others didn't argue. The figure stood and the room fell silent.
Back in the Bathroom
Jules blinked.
Her eyes stung. The room had gone too hot. She was starting to notice the ornate trim, the chandelier with tiny crystals hanging like expensive knives. The edge of a towel warmer, the fucking soft-close toilet seat.
Where the fuck am I?
The shower still ran. She wasn't in it. She reached for the handle, so she could hear herself think — but that was when the door slammed open. She barely had time to flinch before a hand was around her throat.
"You were supposed to be taking a shower!"
The voice was manic, harsh, shaking with fury.
Not the cold control of the other one. Unhinged… He shoved her down onto the toilet, still gripping her neck — not crushing, but close.
Her feet slipped on the tile, trying to push back.
The back of her knees hit porcelain. Her body hit the tank.
"You are gonna take a fucking shower. And then you're gonna get dressed. You have a meeting"
A meeting? WTF?
"Someone want to meet you."
She coughed, breath rattling. She could feel her throat, her arm, or the mounting wrongness in her chest. His eyes flicked down. Recognition.
"Now get your ass in that shower, or I'll wash you myself," he hissed.
A pause.
A flicker.
A grin.
"Didn't know you were a girl."
Her stomach dropped again.
"bet you're wishing you were dead," he said, tightening his grip just enough to make her spine jolt.
Then he threw her back again. Not hard. Not soft. He stood. Adjusted his sleeves. Smoothed his stubble with one hand.
"Clothes are on the bed." Looking her up and down.
He left.
Door shut.
Silence.
And Jules, shaking, dripping, jaw clenched to keep from screaming, she stepped into the shower.
The clothes were folded on the bed like an offering. Not fancy. Just... normal. Soft T-shirt. Sweatpants. Underwear in plastic. All tags cut. Nothing to trace. Jules stood there in a towel, still dripping slightly, staring at them like they might explode. She hadn't seen her reflection in the bathroom mirror — not properly — but she could feel how puffy her face was, how red her eyes still were.
She didn't want to touch anything, but she was cold and exhausted. Whatever came next, she didn't want to be naked for it. She started getting dressed. Halfway through pulling on the pants, she heard voices outside the door. Male voices. Two of them. Muffled through the thick wood.
She froze. Held her breath. One was the tattooed guy — that clipped, calm tone she was already learning to dread. The other? Baldy. Tighter. Angrier. Always on the edge of barking.
"—don't like it," Baldy was saying. "We should've just dumped them in a ditch. It's a waste of time."
"That's not your call," Tattoo responded.
"She's a risk."
"And so is crossing Alias," Tattoo said, emphasis flat but heavy.
A pause.
Then Baldy, grumbling:
"You think they're gonna go easy on her?"
A laugh. Quiet. Dark.
"You kidding? Alias already has a plan."
"Then bring the freak in. Let 'em decide."
Footsteps.
Jules held still, one sock in her hand, heart trying to rattle its way out of her chest.
Alias?
Who calls themselves Alias?
Jules exhaled like she'd been holding it for years.
The door opened. Both Baldy and tattoo were standing there, if they were trying to look scary, they were succeeding.
Jules was led down a silent hallway. No windows. No hum of conversation. Just carpet, trim, and flickering sconces. She also heard footsteps that weren't hers.
The tattooed guy stopped in front of a door, knocked once, then left her there without a word.
She stood for a moment, damp and aching, then opened it.
The room was dim.
Not dark. Not cozy. Just controlled.
Clean desk. Leather chair. Cigarette smoke curling in lazy spirals through golden light.
And seated behind the desk—partially in shadow—was Alias.
Jules didn't know her name, but her presence was enough. The room bent around her.
The only part of her clearly visible was her hands.
They weren't delicate.
The veins stood out along the backs—strong, steady, precise. The nails short and filed. No polish. No jewelry.
But when they moved—just slightly, turning her palm upward as they spoke—they moved gracefully.
Not like a man's.
Not like anything Jules could categorize.
Her voice was low. Smooth.
Like tinted glass.
"You've come highly recommended."
Jules blinked.
"...What? Me?"
"The Adamo family," Alias said. "They say you kept their cash flow clean for three years without a single audit."
Jules laughed once. Loud.
A sharp, stupid bark.
"I—okay. No. I fold boxes."
Alias said nothing.
"I mean it. I fold boxes. That's the job. I fold the box. I put the falafel in the box. If the phone rings and no one else is around, I take the order. Sometimes I forget to give people their drinks, and they yell at me."
Still, Alias said nothing.
"Listen Lady, I'm a nobody, I live in a basement suite that smells like weed and existential dread. My landlord thinks my name is 'Janice' because I was too awkward to correct him and now it's been two years."
She paced a tight circle, voice climbing. She gestured to herself like she was presenting a very disappointing science fair project.
"I have zero friends. Unless you count my weed guy, who texts me memes and once invited me to his wedding. I didn't go, because I hate parties.
She snapped her fingers, pointing toward Alias now.
"So, no. I'm not laundering money for the mafia or whoever. I've never laundered anything. Not clothes, not cash, not even my fucking browser history."
A beat.
Then Alias laughed.
Quiet. Almost fond.
Like Jules had told her a private joke.
She leaned back in her chair, smoke curling from the clove cigarette between her fingers. The room seemed to tilt with the weight of it.
"You're funny," she said. "That's good."
Jules didn't know what to do with that. She crossed her arms tighter, tried not to shake.
Alias stood.
No rush.
No change in tone. Just motion — fluid and inevitable.
She stood up, moved around the desk with the kind of calm that made your skin crawl. Jules tracked her with her eyes, trying not to flinch. Trying not to anticipate.
Then Alias stopped in front of her.
Close.
Not towering — but close.
Jules held her breath.
Alias reached out.
Her fingers brushed Jules's jaw first — light, warm. Then two fingers under her chin, tipping her face upward until their eyes met.
It wasn't forceful.
But it didn't ask permission either.
Jules didn't resist. Couldn't. She was too busy trying not to short-circuit.
Alias studied her. Her touch stayed soft. Almost... thoughtful.
"You're clever," she said quietly.
"And desperate. That makes you interesting."
Her thumb brushed along Jules's cheekbone.
"But let's get something clear."
She leaned in — not looming, not dramatic — just present.
Breath warm. Words like silk over steel.
"If you're wasting my time... if this whole little gremlin act is just cover for a rat who thinks she's smart enough to play both sides—"
She smiled.
Very slightly.
"I will have you wiped off this very floor like a wine stain."
Jules swallowed.
Hard.
Alias held her gaze for one more breathless beat...
...then let her go.
Turned.
Walked back toward her desk with the same effortless calm.
"We start tomorrow," she said, as if none of it mattered at all.