Page 3 of Shadow Waltz

It wasn't much, but it was enough. It had to be.

The platform stretched out before us like something from a nightmare, all flickering fluorescent lights and echoing emptiness. This late at night, the city shed its daytime mask and showed its true face—hungry, desperate, unforgiving. The air smelled like piss and ozone and something else, something that made my skin crawl.

“You sure about this?” Cass asked, their voice barely audible over the rumble of an approaching train.

I adjusted the straps of our backpack on my shoulders, taking the weight so Cass wouldn't have to. Even this small burden felt too heavy for them now, and I could see the relief in their posture when I lifted it away. “Yeah. You trust me?”

“Always.”

The train roared past without stopping, empty cars flashing by in a blur of fluorescent light and graffiti tags. I caught glimpses of the interior—plastic seats bolted to the floor, windows covered in a film of grime and broken promises. This was the city's circulatory system, carrying people from one disappointment to another.

We weren't supposed to be down here this late, but the platform was mostly deserted. A homeless guy slept on a bench near the far end, his possessions piled around him like a fortressbuilt from shopping carts and garbage bags. Near the stairs, two men in expensive suits stood smoking cigarettes, their conversation too quiet to hear but punctuated by occasional laughter.

There was something wrong about them, something that made my skin crawl. They looked too clean, too polished for this time of night. Their shoes were shined, their hair perfectly styled, their suits tailored to fit like second skin. And they were standing too close to the only exit, like they were waiting for something.

Or someone.

“How much further?” Cass asked, leaning against the wall. They'd been walking slower all day, stopping to catch their breath every few blocks. The journey from Mrs. Hargrove's apartment to the subway had taken twice as long as it should have, and I could see exhaustion written in every line of their body.

“Just a few more stops. Then we're home free.”

But even as I said it, I could feel those men watching us. Their conversation had stopped, and now they were looking directly at me and Cass, their expressions calculating. One of them dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his heel.

“Ash,” Cass whispered, grabbing my arm. Their fingers were ice cold even through my jacket. “Those guys...”

“I know.” I pulled them closer, trying to shield them with my body. But there was nowhere to go. The platform stretched out behind us, empty and echoing, and the only way out was past the men in suits. “Just stay close to me.”

The men started walking toward us, all smiles and false concern. The taller one had kind eyes and salt-and-pepper hair, the sort of face that belonged in a commercial for family insurance. His companion was younger, maybe thirty, with the build of someone who spent serious time in the gym.

“You kids okay?” the older one asked, his voice gentle and concerned. “Kinda late to be out here alone.”

“We're fine,” I said, stepping back. My hand moved instinctively to the knife in my pocket, fingers closing around the handle. It wasn't much—just a switchblade I'd lifted from one of Mrs. Hargrove's boyfriends—but it made me feel less helpless.

“You sure? You look like you could use some help.” The man's smile never wavered, but it never reached his eyes either. There was something hollow behind his expression, something that reminded me of the stuffed animals in Mrs. Hargrove's room—all surface softness hiding something rotten underneath. “We know a place. Safe place. Good food, warm beds.”

“We're not interested.”

“Come on, don't be like that.” The younger one moved to block our path to the stairs, his movements casual but deliberate. “We're just trying to help. City's dangerous this time of night. Lot of bad people looking to take advantage of kids like you.”

Cass started coughing again, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. They doubled over, one hand pressed to their mouth, the other clutching my jacket for support. When they pulled their hand away, there was blood on their palm—not just a trace this time, but a proper smear of red that looked black under the fluorescent lights.

The men exchanged a glance, and I saw something flicker in their expressions. Not concern. Calculation. Like they were appraising merchandise and adjusting their offer accordingly.

“Your friend's sick,” the older man said, taking another step closer. “Real sick. We can get them help. Medical attention, medicine, whatever they need.”

“They're fine.”

“No, they're not.” His voice was still gentle, still reasonable, but there was steel underneath now. “Look at them, son. They'redying. How long do you think they'll last out here? A week? A day?”

Cass collapsed against me, their legs giving out completely. I caught them, felt how light they'd become, how fragile. Their skin was gray under the harsh lights, and their breathing came in short, sharp gasps that sounded like they were drowning on dry land.

“It's okay,” Cass whispered, their voice barely audible. Blood ran down their chin, dark and thick in the flickering light. “Maybe... maybe they can help.”

“No.” I held them tighter, but I could feel them slipping away from me. Not just physically, but something deeper. The spark that made themthemwas flickering like a candle in a hurricane. “No, we can handle this.”

“Can you?” The younger man stepped closer, his shadow falling across us both. “You got medical training? You got money for a hospital? You got anywhere else to go?”

I knew the answers. No, no, and no. I had nothing to offer except stubborn refusal to give up, and that wasn't enough. It had never been enough.