"I can't do this, Elida. Frank is furious."

Maya stood in the kitchen doorway, wringing her hands. Behind her, her husband was shouting at the TV, but the volume was clearly meant for Elida.

"He says we're not a charity."

Elida zipped up her suitcase. "It's fine, Maya. I found a place."

"You did? Where?"

"Queens. A sublet."

It was a lie. She had a viewing in an hour for a basement unit that looked like a crime scene in the photos, and she had just enough cash for the deposit if she pawned her watch.

Two hours later, she was standing in a room with one window that looked out onto a brick wall. It smelled of damp earth.

"Take it or leave it," the landlord grunted.

"I'll take it."

She dropped her bags and looked at the text message from yesterday. The Onyx Room.

It was a high-end jazz lounge in Chelsea. Members only. No phones. No names.

She walked in through the service entrance at 9:30 PM.

The manager, a man named Blackwood with a scar running through his eyebrow, looked her up and down.

"You the one who texted?"

"Yes."

"Can you play?"

Elida sat at the Steinway in the corner. She didn't play Mozart. She played a dissonant, jazz improvisation of a nursery rhyme. Dark. Complex.

Blackwood nodded. "You're hired. But you wear a mask. All the staff do. It's the gimmick."

He handed her a black, lace masquerade mask.

By 11:00 PM, the lounge was full. The lighting was dim, amber and smoky. She sat at the piano, her face hidden, her fingers moving over the keys like they were breathing.

Then the air in the room changed.

The heavy oak doors swung open.

Abraham Crane rolled in.

He was in a fresh suit, looking impeccable. No sign of the overdose from last night.

And pushing him was a woman she vaguely recognized as Camille's cousin, Jenna.

She was wearing a white dress that sparkled under the low lights, looking like a diamond in a coal mine. She was beaming, leaning down to whisper something in Abraham's ear.

Her hands faltered on the keys for a fraction of a second. She recovered, transitioning into a minor chord.

They were seated at the VIP booth, directly to her right. ten feet away.

She kept her head down, focusing on the keys.

"Champagne," she heard Jenna's voice. High-pitched. Demanding. "The Krug."

Abraham wasn't looking at her. He was scanning the room. His eyes landed on the piano. On her.

She felt his gaze like a physical touch. He couldn't know it was her. The mask covered half her face. Her hair was pinned up.

A young man in a tailored suit, clearly drunk on Wall Street bonuses, leaned against the piano.

"Hey, beautiful," he slurred, reaching out to touch her bare shoulder. "Do you take requests?"

She didn't look up. "No touching the talent."

He laughed, his hand sliding down toward her arm.

She didn't think. She lifted the fallboard-the heavy wooden cover over the keys-and let it drop.

CRACK.

It caught the tip of his finger.

He screamed.

The music stopped. The room went silent.

"My hand! She broke my hand!" the man wailed, clutching his finger.

Security moved in instantly.

She sat perfectly still, lifting the cover back up.

Abraham was watching. He wasn't horrified. He looked... interested.

Jenna stood up, looking for the source of the drama. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Elida.

She walked over, her heels clicking on the hardwood.

She stopped at the piano. She leaned in, staring at the side of Elida's neck.

There was a small mole behind her ear. A birthmark Jenna used to make fun of when they were kids.

Jenna's eyes widened. A slow, cruel smile spread across her face.

She grabbed the microphone from the stand.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Jenna announced, her voice amplifying through the speakers. "Since we have such a... passionate pianist tonight, I have a request."

She looked directly at Elida.

"Play something we can all understand," she hissed, off-mic. "Something simple. For simple people."

Abraham frowned, sensing the shift in tension.

"Jenna," he warned.

"Oh, come on, darling," she said, turning to him. "Let's hear what the help can do."

The room waited. The silence was heavy, expectant.

Jenna's request hung in the air like a bad smell. She wanted a pop song. Something trite. Something to reduce Elida to a jukebox.

Elida looked at her through the eyeholes of her lace mask. She saw the gleam of victory in Jenna's eyes. Jenna thought she had her cornered.

Elida looked at Abraham. He was swirling the amber liquid in his glass, watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. He was waiting to see if she would fold.

She placed her hands on the keys.

She didn't play Jenna's song.

She hit a low, discordant chord. A C-minor that rumbled in the chest cavities of everyone in the front row.

She began to play Strange Fruit.

But not the standard version. She played it with a violent, aggressive tempo. The notes were sharp, biting.

She leaned into the microphone.

She opened her mouth and sang.

Her voice was husky, roughened by exhaustion and suppressed rage. She didn't sing it pretty. She sang it like an accusation.

"Southern trees bear strange fruit..."

The chatter in the back of the room died instantly.

She stared directly at the VIP booth as she sang. She turned the lyrics into a weapon. The "blood on the leaves" became the blood on the contract Abraham tried to buy her with. The "black bodies swinging" became the way the rich dangled people like her for sport.

Jenna's smile faltered. She looked around, realizing the mood had shifted from party to funeral. She looked foolish standing there in her sparkling dress while Elida poured darkness into the room.

Abraham stopped drinking. He set his glass down. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

He recognized the anger. He didn't know the face, but he knew the rage.

She finished the song with a single, high note that cut off abruptly, leaving a ringing silence.

For three seconds, no one moved.

Then, the applause started. It wasn't polite. It was thunderous.

She stood up. She didn't bow to the audience. She curtsied, mockingly, to Jenna.

Jenna turned red. She opened her mouth to scream something, but Abraham's hand shot out, gripping her wrist.

"Sit down," she heard him say. His voice was low, dangerous. "You've done enough."

Elida turned and walked off the stage, her legs trembling.

Blackwood was waiting in the wings. "Holy shit, V. That was... intense."

"I need a break," she gasped.

She pushed past him into the dressing room.

In the VIP booth, Mercer leaned over Abraham's shoulder. He placed a tablet on the table.

"Sir," Mercer whispered. "The serial number on the twenty-dollar bill you found this morning."

Abraham looked at the screen.

"It was dispensed from a bodega in Queens yesterday afternoon," Mercer said. "And the specific cocktail in the syringe... the formulation matches the private files on 'The Surgeon'."

Abraham stared at the report. Then he looked at the empty piano bench.

The pianist. The refusal of the money. The twenty dollars.

It all clicked.

His entire body tensed, knuckles white on the armrest of his chair. A low growl escaped his lips, a sound of pure frustration and dawning realization.

Jenna gasped. "Abe? Are you alright?"

"Stay here," he ordered.

He wheeled his chair with sharp, aggressive movements toward the backstage door, Mercer flanking him.

Elida was already in the alley.

She had ripped off the mask and thrown her coat over her dress. The cold night air felt good against her heated skin.

She walked fast toward the subway station.

A black SUV screeched to a halt at the mouth of the alley, blocking her path.

The rear door opened.

Mercer stepped out.

"Miss Adkins," he said. He wasn't holding a weapon, but his stance was a blockade.

"Get out of my way, Mercer."

"The boss wants a word."

"I don't work for him anymore."

"It's about the tip," Mercer said, his face impassive. "He says twenty dollars was... insufficient."

She reached into her pocket, gripping the canister of pepper spray.

"Tell him to keep the change."

She tried to step around him.

Mercer moved, blocking her again. "Please, Elida. Don't make me put you in the car."

Elida didn't use the pepper spray. She knew Mercer. He could disarm her before she even uncapped it.

She got in the car.

But she refused to go to the penthouse.

"Take me home," she said.

"The boss said-"

"Take. Me. Home. Or I open this door while we're moving."

Mercer looked in the rearview mirror. The partition was down. Abraham was sitting in the back with her.

"Take her to Queens," Abraham said. His voice was tight.

The ride was silent. Abraham stared straight ahead. Elida stared out the window.

When they pulled up to the crumbling brick building in Queens, she felt a flush of shame. It was a stark contrast to the glass tower she had left yesterday.

"You live here?" Abraham asked. He looked at the graffiti on the door.

"It's what I can afford."

She got out. To her horror, the car door didn't close behind her.

Abraham got out.

He stood on the sidewalk, his cane in hand. He looked like a god descending into the underworld. His suit cost more than this entire building.

"You're not coming up," she said, blocking the doorway.

"The elevator is broken," he observed, his eyes scanning the derelict lobby beyond her. "Of course it is."

"A shame. You'll have to leave."

He took a single step forward, forcing her to step back into the entryway. "I'm not leaving until we talk."

"There's nothing to talk about. The DOJ is watching you, Abraham. Standing here, in this neighborhood, is reckless. Your performance is slipping."

His jaw tightened. He hated that she saw through the act. He hated that she knew.

He turned to her, his voice a low growl that echoed in the small, tiled space.

"Why?" he demanded. "Why this hovel? Why live like a rat when you have a check for three million dollars in your pocket?"

"I tore it up."

"I can write another one."

"I don't want it!" she shouted. The sound bounced off the close walls.

He stepped closer, backing her against the cold mailboxes.

"What do you want then?" he growled. "You want me to beg? You want an apology?"

"I want nothing from you."

"Liar." He slammed his hand against the metal door right next to her head. "You came back last night. You saved me. You slept with me."

"That was a mistake."

"Was it?"

He was too close. She could feel his heat.

"You were practice," she said. The lie tasted like bile.

Abraham froze. "What?"

"I needed to know if I could handle a man like you," she said, forcing her voice to be steady. "For when I find a real husband. Someone with a future. Someone who isn't... broken."

His eyes went dead. The fire in them extinguished instantly.

She had hit the one spot that wasn't armored. His insecurity about his body.

He stepped back. He adjusted his cuffs.

"I see," he said. His voice was ice. "Well. I'm glad I could be of service."

He turned and walked out.

He didn't look back.

She waited until she heard the SUV's engine roar to life and fade into the distance.

She slid down the front of the mailboxes until she hit the floor. She buried her face in her knees and sobbed.

Her phone buzzed.

She wiped her eyes and looked at the screen. It was the encrypted forum. The Void.

A private message from user The_King.

The_King: A contract is signed in ink, but its clauses are written in blood. Refusal is merely a request for a higher price.

She stared at the message. He was hurting.

She typed back, her fingers trembling.

The_Novice: Unless the commodity being sold is the soul. Then the currency itself is the insult.