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Rebecca Torres had a recurring nightmare where her teeth fell out one by one. Her dentist called it stress-induced bruxism, but tonight, as she chewed her pen into tiny confetti, she just called it election season.

The city council chambers had emptied three hours ago, so now Rebecca could operate on her own time. The quiet of the municipal building at night allowed her to concentrate without the endless parade of staffers, constituents, and reporters vying for pieces of her time. Exactly how she liked it.

And from now until the election next week, Rebecca’s task was simple: milk this cow dry.

Rebecca’s approval rate had hit rock bottom since the power station debacle, so the chances of her being re-elected next were less than zero. The people of Granville wanted a real leader, and Rebecca couldn’t blame them. Because while Rebecca smiled for photographs and said the right words on camera, her heart wasn’t in this. Had never been in this. These days, politics was a transient game, and if you were smart, you got in, got out and just hoped the next person screwed up as much as you did.

She’d never admit this, not even to those closest to her. To everyone else, Rebecca was the presentable, relatable, middle-aged politician who longed for the days of Granville past, back when you could leave your most valued possessions on your front lawn and they’d still be there by morning.

Of course, this had never been the case. Granville – and probably no place on earth – had ever had this kind of luxury. But Rebecca said it anyway, because language was the politician’s favorite sleight of hand.

Rebecca had mastered this particular magic during her first term, learning how to transform self-interest into public service through the careful application of focus-group-tested terminology.

And right now, that language was talking spreadsheets, allocations, appropriations.

Numbers .

Beautiful, flexible numbers.

Combine it with the right words, and you have a recipe for an easy life.

Because while council presidents in towns like Granville typically served for two or three terms at most, the savvy ones knew the real payday wasn't printed on their official checks. With the right connections, the right contracts, and just enough plausible deniability, you could walk away with seven, sometimes eight figures in your back pocket.

The numbers on her spreadsheet in front of her danced in defiance of logic, particularly those earmarked for the power station overhaul. Six million dollars allocated, but the receipts tallied to only $5.1 million. $600,000 had taken a detour through a series of shell companies before landing in an offshore account under a name that most people in America couldn’t pronounce. Then there was the extra $300,000 in technical writing, inspection services, consulting fees. They all sounded like real things, sure, but only Rebecca and a few close confidants knew they were nothing but fugazi.

Corruption was such a dirty word, so Rebecca thought of herself as pragmatic instead. After all, wasn't politics just the art of resource allocation? And weren't elected officials chronically underpaid for their sacrifice? She’d been working for this town for ten years in total, and wasn’t that worth a little compensation? And didn't the town benefit too? The power station would still function. Maybe not quite as efficiently as promised, but Granville would still get cheaper electricity.

But even with cheaper electricity for the whole town, plenty of citizens were still up in arms about the power station overhaul. Not because they suspected embezzlement, but because of the increase in noise, pollution and destruction of historic properties. The environmental impact statements, the religious zealots from First Light Assembly, the preservationists with their ‘Save Historic Granville’ signs. It was the same tired NIMBY battle that plagued every infrastructure project in America.

Rebecca sat back in her chair. Something clanged in the alleyway outside her office. Usually, it would annoy her, but Rebecca was secure in the knowledge she wouldn’t have to endure this view for much longer. She’d be at home, in her sunroom, overlooking the water without having to worry about employment rates or police budgets ever again .

The thought reminded her of this morning’s meeting with Detective Westfall from Granvillle PD. He’d mentioned two murders in three days, and how he wanted to keep the details on the down low. Rebecca agreed, and not just because the last thing she needed was mass hysteria. The whole thing gave her the creeps. She'd leveraged her position to get details the public wasn't privy to, because information was currency, and Rebecca Torres never entered any transaction without maximum advantage. Westfall had assured her that the investigation was proceeding with the help of the FBI, but Rebecca knew better than to trust Westfall. That idiot couldn't find water if he fell out of a boat.

Rebecca’s cell buzzed on the desk in a tight, angry circle. She grabbed it. A text from her husband.

Coming home tonight?

Rebecca didn't bother responding. Frank knew the answer. The last week in office meant late nights until they peeled her out of her chair. Their marriage operated on a series of silent understandings, his primary one being that making money came first. Frank had long made peace with being a political spouse, and Rebecca was sure he’d reap the rewards with her once this stint in office was over.

Movement suddenly caught her eye – a flash of light from the window – followed by another clang. Rebecca pushed back from her desk and peered through the blinds. She looked out into what the building manager charitably called the service corridor but was, in reality, a trash-strewn alleyway.

A figure moved in the shadows, illuminated intermittently by what appeared to be a small fire.

Rebecca grabbed her glasses and took a closer look.

The fire wasn't in a trash can as she'd first assumed, but some kind of metal container. A brazier, maybe. The figure huddled beside it was shrouded in layers of mismatched clothing.

Ah yes, another one of the town’s lost souls. Urban furniture, she sometimes joked. The homeless situation had become Granville's festering wound, and Rebecca had built her political brand on being tough but fair. Her comprehensive strategy last year hadn’t worked. A strategy that had involved relocating services to the outskirts of town rather than expanding them in the city center where they impacted property values and business interests. The fact that she owned three rental properties in the downtown area was, of course, immaterial to her position on the matter.

Rebecca watched the figure put something into their fire, then sit down against the wall. Rebecca could go out there and demand this person leave since the alley was council property, but December in Ohio wasn’t exactly tropical. It was a bad night to be homeless, and the human side of Rebecca didn’t have it in her to banish this person elsewhere.

The sight of the figure with their tattered, mismatched robes stirred something in her. Rebecca wasn’t sure if it was sympathy or anxiety. Maybe news of the killer was making her paranoid. Maybe it was time to go home. She could get this work done at home. Frank would probably be asleep by the time she got back too, meaning no interruptions.

Decision made.

Rebecca grabbed her jacket, packed up her laptop and slid it under her arm. She gathered the rest of her papers, double-checked that her desk was clear of anything sensitive, and switched off her desk lamp.

The hallway outside stretched in darkness. This late, even the most ambitious staffers had gone home. All that remained was a cleaner and a lone security guard on the front desk.

As she descended the stairs, she remembered with a sinking feeling that she'd parked in the back lot today. Which meant passing the alley. Passing the homeless person.

‘Goddamn it,’ she muttered.

She reached into her purse and felt around for loose change. A politician, even one as pragmatic as Rebecca Torres, couldn't be seen refusing a homeless person. She could already imagine the headlines: COUNCILWOMAN TORRES IGNORES CITY'S VULNERABLE , accompanied by some unflattering photo where she appeared to be sneering. She conjured up a few coins, probably a few dollars’ worth. That would do.

The municipal building's back exit deposited her exactly where she didn't want to be: ten feet from the mouth of the alley. The night air hit her with its December bite. From here, she could see the fire more clearly. Not a trash can, but some kind of portable metal container. She could make out the shape of the man, too, hunched by the dumpster.

Rebecca gripped her keys in her right hand, points outward between her fingers – a self-defense technique she'd learned in a women's safety workshop she'd attended for the photo op. The change jingled in her left pocket, ready for deployment.

As she approached, the figure stirred.

‘Spare something, ma'am?’

The voice was soft and oddly cultured. Not the slurred request of an alcoholic or the desperate plea of an addict. Still, Rebecca didn't slow her pace. She fished the coins from her pocket and tossed them in the general direction of the outstretched hand.

Rebecca was three steps past when the voice came again. ‘I didn’t mean money.’

The comment stopped Rebecca in her tracks. Throughout her political career, Rebecca Torres had learned never to back down from a threat, and what Rebecca Torres just heard was a threat.

She turned to find the figure had risen to full height. The layers of clothing now seemed less like rags and more like loose-fitting garments chosen for freedom of movement.

And in the figure’s hand, something glinted. Not a begging cup. Not a drug needle. Something with purpose. Something with a blade. The keys lodged between Rebecca’s fingers seemed woefully inadequate.

Rebecca opened her mouth to offer a rebuttal, but the first word died in her throat.

Pain exploded across her throat. Her hands threw up and found liquid, and then her high heels betrayed her one last time as she stumbled backward. Above her, the figure moved with deliberate calm, returning to the fire.

As Rebecca's vision tunneled, she saw what rested in those flames: a metal rod with some kind of brand on the end.

A brand. Just like Detective Westfall had mentioned in this morning’s meeting.

Rebecca Torres’ final thought wasn't of Frank, or her career, or even fear. It was an absurd realization that tomorrow's headline wouldn't be about her refusing to give change to the homeless. It would be something much more final.