The Blackwater District looked like a war zone that the city had forgotten to clean up.

Iverson walked out of the subway station and into the gray afternoon light. The street was lined with boarded-up windows and flickering streetlamps that buzzed even in the daytime.

A police siren wailed two blocks over. Iverson didn't even turn his head. His heart rate stayed perfectly steady.

He walked past a homeless man sitting on a milk crate. The man held out a greasy paper cup, his hands shaking from withdrawal.

Iverson didn't break his stride. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket, flicked a crumpled five-dollar bill between his fingers, and dropped it perfectly into the cup as he passed.

He took a sharp right, ducking into a narrow alleyway. The brick walls were covered in overlapping layers of gang graffiti. It was a shortcut to Arthur's thrift store.

Halfway down the alley, two junkies were huddled together, passing a small plastic baggie back and forth. They heard his footsteps and froze, their eyes wide and paranoid.

Iverson kept his eyes locked straight ahead. His face was a blank, emotionless mask. He didn't slow down. He didn't speed up.

The junkies felt the heavy, suffocating aura radiating off him. It was the energy of someone who had nothing to lose and was hoping for a reason to snap. They scrambled backward, pressing their thin bodies against the dirty brick wall to give him the entire path.

He emerged from the alley and saw the faded, buzzing neon sign of Arthur's General Goods.

Iverson pushed the heavy glass door open. The brass bell attached to the top clanged with a dull, heavy thud.

The inside of the store smelled like dust, old pennies, and mothballs. The lighting was terrible, casting long, yellowish shadows across the cluttered aisles.

Arthur, a heavy-set man with a thick gray beard, was sitting behind the counter. He was squinting at a horse racing newspaper. He glanced up over his reading glasses.

"Well, look who it is," Arthur chuckled, his voice rough from cigars. "The rich boy. What are you doing back in the slums, Ivy?"

"Just passing through, Artie," Iverson replied, his voice flat. He didn't stop to chat. He walked straight past the counter and headed deep into the aisles.

Two young white clerks were restocking shelves in the back. They both stopped moving the second Iverson walked into their aisle. Their eyes darted to his pulled-up hood, his baggy clothes, and the dark scuff marks on his shoes.

"Look at this guy," the first clerk whispered to the other. "Baggy clothes, hood up. He's definitely here for a five-finger discount."

The second clerk nodded slowly. His right hand drifted down to his belt, resting nervously on a canister of bear mace.

Iverson heard every word. A dark, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

He turned toward the metal shelving unit. Instead of looking quietly, he started shoving boxes aside. He dragged metal objects across the wire racks, intentionally making as much noise as humanly possible. Clang. Screech. Bang.

The clerk with the bear mace flinched, taking a quick step backward. His heel caught the edge of a cardboard box, and he knocked it over, spilling cheap plastic toys all over the floor.

Iverson ignored them. He crouched down and pulled a bulky object from the bottom shelf.

It was a used, red-and-white plastic megaphone.

He held it up, flipped the power switch on the side, and squeezed the trigger. A loud, piercing burst of static feedback shrieked through the quiet store.

Iverson smiled. He clicked it off. Perfect.

He walked back to the front counter, completely ignoring the two clerks who were still frozen in the aisle.

He pulled a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and slapped it flat on the glass counter.

Arthur picked up the bill, holding it up to the light. "What the hell do you need that piece of junk for?"

"I need to send a message to someone," Iverson said. The dangerous glint in his eye returned.

He grabbed the megaphone by the handle and turned toward the door. The memory of the police sirens and the chaotic noise in the background of Brenda's phone call flashed through his mind. His stomach tightened again. The anxiety was a physical weight pressing down on his lungs.

He pushed the glass door open much harder than necessary.

The brass bell clanged violently against the glass. Iverson stepped out onto the sidewalk, blending instantly into the fading yellow light of the streetlamps.

A cold wind whipped down the avenue. Iverson reached up, pulled the drawstrings of his hoodie tight against his neck, and started walking fast toward Brenda's shop.

Brenda stood behind the glass display counter of her vintage clothing store, her chest heaving.

She quickly jammed the half-smoked Marlboro cigarette into the bottom of a heavy glass ashtray, crushing the cherry until it went out.

She grabbed a cheap, pink bottle of rose perfume from the counter. She aimed the nozzle at the air and pressed down, spraying a thick, suffocating cloud of floral mist all around her.

The smell was horrific. The heavy, sweet scent of artificial roses mixed with the stale, bitter stench of cheap tobacco. It smelled like a funeral parlor that had caught on fire.

Brenda inhaled the thick mist and immediately doubled over. A violent coughing fit ripped through her chest.

The sudden jerking motion pulled at the old injury in her lower spine. A sharp, electric shock of pain shot up her back. She gasped, dropping the perfume bottle on the counter, and gripped the edge of the glass case with both hands to keep from collapsing.

Heavy footsteps echoed on the concrete outside.

Brenda's head snapped up. Her eyes went wide with panic.

The front door swung open. Iverson's tall, broad-shouldered frame filled the doorway, completely blocking out the streetlights behind him.

Brenda instantly stood up straight. She forced her facial muscles to stretch into a bright, casual smile. "Ivy! You're here."

Iverson didn't say a word. He didn't smile back.

He raised the red-and-white megaphone to his mouth, flipped the switch, and pulled the trigger.

"HEALTH DEPARTMENT. SURPRISE INSPECTION," his voice boomed through the speaker, amplified to a deafening volume.

The sound waves physically shook the small store. The metal hangers on the clothing racks rattled against the metal pipes.

Brenda shrieked. She grabbed a dirty rag off the counter and hurled it straight at his head.

Iverson tilted his head a fraction of an inch. The rag sailed past his ear and hit the door. He clicked the megaphone off and let it hang by his side.

He reached behind him and pushed the door shut, locking the deadbolt. The noise of the street vanished.

Iverson took one step into the room and inhaled through his nose. His dark eyebrows instantly slammed together.

He walked straight to the counter, his eyes locked on hers. "It smells like a chain-smoker drowned in a vat of cheap perfume in here."

Brenda waved her hand dismissively. "It's the auto body shop next door. The wind blows all their exhaust right through my vents."

Iverson let out a cold, humorless laugh. He didn't argue. He just reached over the glass counter, grabbed the handle of the bottom drawer, and yanked it open.

The heavy glass ashtray, overflowing with crushed cigarette butts, sat right in the center of the drawer.

Brenda froze. She slowly reached up and rubbed the side of her nose, her eyes darting away from his face. She looked like a guilty child.

Iverson opened his mouth, the harsh words already loaded on his tongue. But before he could speak, his eyes dropped to her waist.

She was trembling. Her posture was completely wrong. All of her body weight was shifted onto her left leg, and her right hand was subtly pressing against her lower spine.

The anger drained out of Iverson's chest, replaced instantly by a heavy, sinking ache.

He dropped the megaphone on the counter. He walked around the display case, his movements fast and undeniable.

He placed both of his large hands firmly on her shoulders and pushed her down. "Sit."

Brenda let out a sharp hiss of pain as her weight settled onto the old, velvet sofa behind the counter. A thin layer of sweat had broken out across her forehead.

Iverson crouched down in front of her. His eyes were soft, but his voice was hard. "Why haven't you gone to the doctor, B?"

Brenda let out a dry, bitter laugh. She shook her head. "A doctor? In this country? The medical bills would bankrupt me before I even got the X-ray results, Ivy."

Iverson stood up slowly. He turned his head and looked around the shop.

The racks were sparse. The mannequins in the window were wearing the same faded dresses they had been wearing a month ago. There wasn't a single piece of new inventory in the entire store.

The reality of her financial situation hit him like a punch to the gut. It was worse than she had admitted on the phone. Much worse.

He curled his fingers into tight fists, his nails digging into his palms. The physical pain grounded him.

"Get your coat," Iverson said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "We're going to the wholesale market right now. We're getting you new stock."

Iverson wrapped his hand firmly around Brenda's elbow, supporting her weight as they walked out of the shop. He pulled the heavy glass door shut and turned the key in the deadbolt.

Brenda tried to jerk her arm away. "I can walk, Iverson. I'm not an invalid."

Iverson didn't let go. His grip was like a steel vise, gentle but entirely immovable. He kept his hand firmly under her elbow, guiding her down the cracked sidewalk.

They walked slowly past a row of dead businesses. Plywood boards covered the windows of the old bakery and the laundromat.

Brenda stared at the wooden boards. Her shoulders slumped. The fear of ending up exactly like those empty storefronts was written all over her face.

Iverson felt the shift in her energy. His chest tightened. He needed to pull her out of her head.

"So," Iverson said, his voice dry. "Did you like the megaphone? I got it for twenty bucks. I was thinking of using it as my new alarm clock."

Brenda's head snapped toward him. Her eyes flashed with irritation. She reached up and smacked the back of his head with her open palm. "You little shit."

Iverson ducked, pretending the slap actually hurt. He rubbed the back of his head, but a small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

They reached the intersection.

Suddenly, the roar of a modified engine tore through the street. A matte-black Dodge Charger sped around the corner, its tires squealing against the asphalt. The windows were rolled down, revealing a car full of men covered in neck tattoos.

An empty glass beer bottle flew out of the passenger window.

It shattered against the curb, inches from Brenda's feet. Shards of brown glass exploded across the sidewalk.

Iverson reacted on pure instinct. He grabbed Brenda by the shoulders and shoved her behind his back, shielding her body with his own. His eyes tracked the taillights of the Charger, his gaze turning into pure, frozen murder.

Brenda gasped, her fingers digging into the fabric of his gray hoodie. She was shaking.

Iverson turned around. He forced the lethal coldness out of his eyes and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "It's fine. Just some drunk idiots. You okay?"

He didn't wait for her answer. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up.

He shifted his eyes to the corner of the street. Two men in dark jackets were leaning against a brick wall, smoking. They weren't looking at the shattered glass. They were looking dead at Iverson and Brenda.

Iverson recognized them instantly. They were Rocco's lookouts.

A violent surge of adrenaline pumped through Iverson's veins. His heart hammered against his ribs. He knew exactly what this meant. Rocco was hunting them.

He didn't let his face change. He couldn't let Brenda panic.

He wrapped his arm tightly around her waist, practically lifting her off her feet, and forced her to walk faster. "Let's go. The market is just ahead."

The wholesale warehouse was a massive, decaying concrete building. The exterior paint was peeling off in huge, gray flakes.

They walked toward a rusted metal side door beneath a faded yellow sign that read EMPLOYEE ENTRANCE. Iverson pulled it open, and they stepped into a dimly lit, industrial corridor. The air inside was heavy, smelling strongly of damp cardboard and mildew.

They walked toward the main passenger elevators. A yellow plastic sign hung over the doors: OUT OF ORDER.

Brenda let out a frustrated sigh. She pointed a shaking finger down a dark hallway to their left. "We have to use the freight elevator in the back."

Iverson nodded. He kept his arm around her as they walked down the narrow, windowless corridor.

The motion-sensor lights above them were failing. They flickered violently, buzzing with a sharp electrical hiss that made Iverson's teeth ache.

He walked silently, placing his feet carefully so his sneakers made zero noise. He was listening. Straining his ears for any sound behind them.

They reached the heavy metal doors of the freight elevator. Iverson pressed the up button.

The digital display lit up red. The elevator was on the third floor, slowly making its way down.

Then, he heard it.

The heavy, metal fire door at the entrance of the hallway groaned open.

Iverson's spine locked. Every muscle in his body instantly coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap.

The sound of heavy boots hitting the concrete floor echoed down the narrow hallway. It wasn't one person. It was multiple. And they were walking with aggressive, deliberate purpose.

Ding.

The elevator arrived. The massive metal doors slowly began to slide open.