After what felt like hours—but was probably only a few minutes—Marcus held up his hand.
The beating stopped.
Kelvin lay on the cold concrete, gasping, every muscle in his body screaming.
He couldn’t tell where the pain ended and he began.
It was everywhere.
It was ‘everything.’ Marcus crouched down beside him, his cheap shoes entering Kelvin’s blurry field of vision.
“Now then,” Marcus said, his voice calm and conversational, like they were old friends catching up over coffee.
“About my money.
You have it?” Kelvin coughed.
Blood splattered onto the concrete.
“I…
don’t…” “No?” Marcus sighed, shaking his head.
“That’s disappointing, Kelvin.
Truly disappointing.” “I can get it,” Kelvin rasped, forcing the words out through cracked lips.
“I swear.
I have a…
a way.
I just need time.” “How much time?” “A week.
Give me a week, and I’ll have everything.
I promise.” Marcus stared at him for a long moment.
Then he laughed.
“A week?” He stood up, shaking his head.
“Boys, he thinks he needs a week.” The men laughed.
A low, cruel sound that echoed through the empty warehouse.
Marcus gestured casually.
“Teach him what happens to people who ask for too much time.” The beating resumed.
Kelvin lost track of how many times they hit him.
He lost track of where the pain was coming from.
His body became a single, unified scream of agony.
When they finally stopped, Kelvin could barely move.
He tasted more blood.
He felt something warm and wet trickling down his forehead.
His vision was swimming in and out of focus.
Marcus crouched down again.
“Here’s the new deal,” he said, his voice dropping to something soft and dangerous.
“You have four days.
‘Four.’ Not a week.
Not six days.
‘Four.'” “I can’t—” “If you don’t have my money in four days,” Marcus continued, ignoring him completely, “I’m going to go back to that hospital.
And this time, I won’t just sit in a chair and smile at your sister.
Do you understand what I’m saying?” Kelvin’s heart stopped.
“Please,” he whispered, tears mixing with blood on his face.
“She’s all I have.
She’s dying.
Please don’t—” “Four days,” Marcus repeated, standing up.
“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Or your sister’s life.” He turned and walked toward the van, his men following behind like obedient shadows.
“Oh, and Kelvin?” Marcus called over his shoulder.
“Don’t try to run again.
I’ll know.
I always know.” One of the men took out Kelvin’s bag from the car and threw it at him and then the van doors slammed shut.
The engine roared to life.
The taillights disappeared into the darkness.
Kelvin lay alone on the cold concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse, broken and bleeding, with four days to save his sister’s life and no idea how he was going to do it.
******** He didn’t know how long he lay there.
Minutes.
Hours.
Time had lost all meaning.
Eventually, the pain forced him to move.
He rolled onto his side, gasping.
He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, his arms trembling with the effort.
He vomited.
Nothing but bile and blood.
His thrift store shopping bag was lying nearby.
Inside, he found his handbag and inside that, the female clothes he had discarded earlier.
The dress.
The wig.
The makeup pouch.
He stared at them for a long moment.
‘I have to go back.
I have to become Kelly again.
I have to pretend everything is fine.
I need that money now more than ever.’ The thought made him want to throw up again.
His phone buzzed.
He fumbled for it, his fingers swollen and clumsy.
A text from Alexander.
[Alex: Where are you?
My meeting ended.
Your seat is empty.] Kelvin’s blood ran cold.
He had been gone too long.
Alexander was already suspicious.
He wiped the blood from his mouth with his shirt sleeve.
The white fabric came away red.
He stared at the red stain on his sleeve for a moment too long.
The world was spinning.
His ribs screamed with every breath.
His face felt like someone had used it as a punching bag.
But he couldn’t stop now.
He couldn’t fall apart.
Not yet.
With trembling hands, Kelvin stripped off the bloodied t-shirt and jeans.
Every movement sent fresh waves of agony through his body.
He bit his lip so hard he tasted more copper to keep from crying out.
The cool air hit his bruised skin, raising goosebumps across his battered torso.
He pulled on the dress.
The soft pink fabric felt like a betrayal against his broken body.
The zipper was tricky with his swollen fingers, but he managed after three agonizing attempts.
Then the wig—he shoved it onto his head, not caring if it was straight, just needing it to stay on.
Finally, the makeup.
He pulled out his compact mirror and nearly cried at what he saw.
His face was a disaster.
A split lip.
A swelling bruise spreading across his cheekbone.
His eye was starting to discolor, the first hints of purple blooming beneath his skin like a rotten flower.
‘How am I supposed to hide this?’ He had no concealer.
No foundation.
Nothing but a small makeup pouch with basic supplies.
He did his best—layering what little foundation he had over the worst of the bruises, using lipstick to distract from the swelling, praying that his long wig would hide the rest.
It was a terrible job.
Anyone who looked closely would see right through it.
But it would have to do.
He stuffed the men’s clothes back into the thrift store bag, slung his handbag on his shoulder, and limped out of the warehouse in heels.
The walk to the main road felt like a marathon.
Every step sent daggers through his ribs.
His left ankle protested with every movement.
By the time he reached the curb, he was drenched in sweat, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
He hailed a cab.
The driver pulled over, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a coffee stain on his shirt.
Kelvin opened the back door and slid inside.
“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.
Kelvin opened his mouth to say the address of Morrowgate Holdings.
But what came out instead was something else entirely.
“I need…
I need a drink first.” The driver raised an eyebrow.
“You okay, miss?
You look pretty roughed up.” “I’m fine,” Kelvin said, his voice dropping—’his male voice, shit, he forgot to raise it’—and he quickly cleared his throat.
“I mean, I’m fine.
Just…
take me to the nearest bar.
Please.” The driver gave him a strange look.
Kelvin could see the confusion in his eyes—the mismatch between the feminine appearance and the masculine voice that had slipped through.
But the driver didn’t say anything.
He just shrugged and pulled back into traffic.
They passed a dozen bars before Kelvin spotted one that looked dim enough to hide in.
“Stop here.” He paid the driver and stumbled out of the cab.
The neon sign flickered above him: ‘The Rusty Nail.’ It looked exactly like the kind of place where people went to disappear.
Perfect.
The bar was dark and smoky, filled with the smell of stale beer and old regrets.
A few patrons sat scattered at the counter, nursing their drinks in silence.
A country song played softly from a jukebox in the corner.
No one looked up when Kelvin entered.
He slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, away from everyone.
The bartender, a heavyset woman with tired eyes and a nose ring, approached him.
“What’ll it be?” “Whiskey,” Kelvin said, forgetting to raise his voice again.
“Neat.
Make it a double.” The bartender’s eyes flickered with recognition of the mismatch—male voice, female face—but she said nothing.
In a place like The Rusty Nail, people learned not to ask questions.
She placed the glass in front of him.
Kelvin grabbed it and downed half of it in one gulp.
The burn was immediate.
It spread through his chest like liquid fire, numbing the edges of his pain.
He welcomed it.
‘One drink.
Just one.
To calm my nerves before I go back.’ He finished the first glass and ordered another.
Then another.
The world began to soften around the edges.
The pain in his ribs became a dull ache instead of a sharp stab.
The image of Marcus’s smiling face faded into a blur.
The countdown—’four days, four days, four days’—became a distant echo.
He was on his third—or was it fourth?—glass when his phone rang.
The screen lit up with a name, and whatever comfort the alcohol had given him evaporated.
‘Alexander.’ Kelvin stared at the phone, his blurry vision struggling to focus on the name.
The device vibrated in his hand, insistent and demanding.
A part of him—the sober, rational part that was drowning somewhere beneath layers of whiskey and pain—screamed at him not to answer.
To let it ring.
To come up with an excuse later.
But his fingers moved on their own.
He swiped to answer and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Hello?” he said.
His voice was deep.
Masculine.
Slurred.
There was a pause on the other end.
Then Alexander’s voice, sharp and cold as a winter blade.
“Who is this?” Kelvin blinked.
The question didn’t make sense to his alcohol-soaked brain.
“What do you mean, who is this?
It’s me.” “Who is ‘me’?” Alexander’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“Where is Kelly?
Why are you answering her phone?” ‘Kelly.’ The name triggered something in Kelvin’s foggy mind.
Kelly.
The fake fiancée.
The woman he was supposed to be.
The role he was playing.
He started laughing.
It began as a small chuckle, then grew into something loud and unhinged.
He laughed until his ribs screamed in protest, until tears streamed down his face, until the bartender shot him a worried look.
“Kelly?” Kelvin repeated, his voice cracking with mirth.
“Oh, you mean ‘her?'” He took another gulp of whiskey, the liquid burning its way down his throat.
“Kelly’s not here right now.
Kelly’s…
Kelly’s wasted on cheap whiskey in some dive bar, trying to forget that her life is a complete and utter disaster.” Silence on the other end.
Then: “Give the phone to Kelly.
Now.” “She can’t come to the phone right now,” Kelvin said, his words slurring together.
“She’s…
she’s a little busy falling apart.
You know how it is.
Fake fiancées, loan sharks, no real life support—it’s a lot.
A ‘lot.'” “Who is this?” Alexander’s voice had dropped to something like speaking through gritted teeth.
It was the kind of voice that preceded a storm.
Kelvin grinned into the phone, even though Alexander couldn’t see it.
“You want to know who this is?” He leaned back on his stool, the world spinning around him.
“This is the man your fake fiancée can never escape from.” He hung up.
The phone clattered onto the bar.
Kelvin stared at it for a moment, then ordered another drink.
‘What have I just done?’ The thought surfaced briefly before drowning in another wave of whiskey.
He didn’t care.
He couldn’t care.
His body was broken, his sister was dying, a loan shark was hunting him, and he had just destroyed the only lifeline he had left.
Let Alexander figure it out.
Let the whole damn world figure it out.
Kelvin raised his glass to no one and muttered, “To four days.” He drank until the world went black.
To be continued…