Chapter 1 — Shadows of Debt

Catalina

The hum of the diner’s fluorescent lights buzzes faintly above me, a monotonous percussion that matches my exhaustion. The air reeks of burnt coffee and grease, clinging to my clothes and hair like an unwelcome guest. The faint clatter of plates being stacked in the kitchen mingles with the low murmur of conversations from late-night stragglers—each sound blending into a never-ending loop of monotony.

I shift my weight from one leg to the other, gripping the edge of the counter to steady myself. My feet ache in my worn-out sneakers, and even the thought of the biting cold waiting for me outside makes my shoulders sag heavier. The clock's neon-green numbers glare at me—1:57 a.m. Almost there.

“Table six needs a refill,” says Diane, her voice cutting through my haze. She leans against the kitchen pass-through, tearing an order slip from her pad with mechanical efficiency. There's no malice in her tone, just a tired solidarity that comes from sharing this graveyard shift grind.

“Got it,” I reply, grabbing the half-empty pot of coffee from the burner. The glass is hot against my fingers, even through the thin towel wrapped around the handle. My body moves on autopilot, weaving through the narrow aisles between tables, dodging elbows and chairs draped with too many coats.

The man at table six doesn’t even glance up. Hunched over his laptop, his glasses reflect the icy glow of the screen, his half-eaten slice of pie long forgotten. I pour the coffee, the bitter, acrid scent wafting up as the dark liquid swirls in his cup.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” I say, forcing a polite tone.

His grunt barely counts as a response. I take it as my cue to leave, retreating to the counter to wipe up the endless trickle of spilled sugar grains. My phone vibrates in my pocket, a sharp jolt against my hip.

My stomach tightens before I even see the screen. Slowly, I pull it out and read the text glowing against the cracked glass: Reminder: Outstanding balance for Russo, Salvatore. Payment due immediately.

My chest constricts, and I grip the phone tighter, its edges digging into my palm. My breath stumbles, shallow and quick, as though the words on the screen are choking me. I can feel my pulse hammering in my ears, drowning out everything else. For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the message, the impossible demands, and the weight of all I can’t fix. My fingers tremble as I shove the phone back into my pocket, as if banishing it there will erase the reality of it.

“You okay, Cat?” Diane’s voice pulls me back. She’s looking at me now, arms crossed, her sharp eyes softening the faintest bit. “You’ve been dragging worse than that coffee pot lately.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, trying to steady my breath. “Just tired.”

She nods, not pressing, but the cigarette tucked behind her ear seems to twitch like it’s itching for a break. “Take a night off. You look like you’re about to keel over. Not that I’d miss the company,” she adds with a dry smirk.

“Thanks for the concern,” I say, matching her sarcasm with a weak grin. The idea of a night off—time to rest or breathe—feels laughable. But I can’t even muster the energy to explain why.

The diner door swings open, letting in a gust of cold air and the unmistakable sound of Paige’s boots tapping against the linoleum floor. Her blonde hair peeks out from under a knit beanie, and her bright yellow scarf is a jarring burst of color against the muted tones of the diner.

“Paige,” I say as she bounces toward the counter, “what are you doing here this late?”

“Thought I’d walk you home,” she replies, plopping onto a stool. “But I got here early, so I figured I’d grab a bite. Got any pie left?”

I smirk despite myself. “We always have pie. Edibility’s another question entirely.”

“I’ll take my chances,” she says with a grin, pulling out her wallet.

I wave her off. “Don’t worry about it. It’s on me.”

Her smile falters slightly, her eyes flickering with hesitation. She knows how tight things are for me. She also knows I won’t budge on this. “You’re too good to me,” she says finally, her grin returning, though softer now.

I plate a slightly sad-looking slice of apple pie and slide it over to her. She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand as she studies me.

“You look like hell,” she says quietly, her voice losing its usual brightness.

“Thanks,” I reply dryly. “Really lifting my spirits here.”

“I’m serious, Cat. You’re running yourself into the ground.”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

Her brow furrows, and for a moment, we sit in the kind of silence only best friends can share. Then she speaks, her voice quieter now. “I’ve been thinking... there might be another way.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “What kind of other way?”

She glances around the diner, as though checking for eavesdroppers. “A friend of mine... she works at The Hives Club. Said they’re hiring.”

The words hit me like a slap of cold air. My stomach twists, and my mind reels with the name I’ve only ever heard in hushed whispers. The Hives Club—an opulent den of power and danger, where the elite play and lives can change with a single mistake.

“Paige,” I say sharply, “you can’t be serious.”

“I know how it sounds,” she says quickly, holding up her hands. “But it’s good money, Cat. Like, really good. And you’d just be waiting tables—not getting involved in anything shady.”

“Not getting involved?” I snap, my voice rising. “Do you even know what happens in places like that?”

She hesitates, her fingers fiddling with the edge of her scarf. “I mean... yeah, I’ve heard stuff. But my friend’s been working there for months, and she’s fine. Honestly, she’s doing great. She even met someone—important.”

Important. The word feels heavy, almost dangerous.

“I don’t need some shady club’s money,” I say, though my voice wavers. “Besides, it’s not worth the risk.”

Her expression softens, and when she speaks again, her tone is gentler. “I know things are tough right now. I just... I thought it might help. At least think about it, okay?”

I want to tell her no. To shut this conversation down and pretend she never mentioned it. But the reminder text burns in the back of my mind, along with the image of my father’s frail frame struggling to breathe just last week when we couldn’t afford his full prescription.

“Fine,” I mutter, my chest tightening. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” she says, though her smile is cautious. “I’ll give you my friend’s number if you want to talk to her.”

The rest of my shift passes in a blur, the weight of our conversation pressing down on me. By the time Paige and I leave the diner and step into the cold night, my thoughts are tangled knots of fear, guilt, and reluctant curiosity.

The city around us is eerily quiet, the streets lined with jagged shadows cast by flickering streetlights. Paige chatters beside me, her voice a faint hum beneath the distant wail of sirens.

When we reach my apartment building, she hugs me tightly, whispering, “Just think about it,” before disappearing into the night.

Inside, the air is thick with the scent of chamomile tea and the tang of medicine. My father is asleep in his recliner, his breathing shallow but steady. Kneeling beside him, I brush a strand of gray hair from his forehead.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I’m trying.”

The pile of bills on the table looms in the corner of my vision, each envelope a reminder of how little I can do. Paige’s words swirl in my mind, dark and insistent.

The Hives Club. Good money. Just think about it.

And against my better judgment, I know I will.