I kept walking.
The city was getting quieter as I moved deeper into the Flats. The nice shops gave way to convenience stores with bulletproof glass. The clean streets gave way to cracked pavement and overflowing trash cans. The tourists gave way to locals, the people who lived here, worked here, suffered here.
And I was bored.
Rather than the kind of bored where you sigh and check your phone, it was kind of bored where your brain starts cooking up stupid ideas because it has nothing better to do. The kind of bored where you're walking through a city full of potential hosts and you can't touch any of them because your parasites are already busy draining a rat-faced teenager chained to a pipe.
Seven worms. All sitting inside Bucky. Slowly, methodically stripping his power away. Twelve hours until they were full.
Twelve hours of waiting...
I didn't feel bad about it. Not even a little. Bucky had beaten me like what, fifty times? A hundred? He'd dragged me into that abandoned building, kicked me until I couldn't breathe, stolen my money, laughed while I bled. He'd done it because Jack told him to, and because he enjoyed it. Because hurting someone weaker made him feel powerful.
And now he was chained to a pipe, screaming for his mom, while seven little worms ate him alive.
If anything, it was too little. Too slow. Too gentle. He deserved worse.
"..."
Speaking of moms, I don't deny that we had similar ones at that...
It was really funny and annoying how many times he made fun of me due to Steph's work. While knowing damn well his mother was much worst.
But that only made it more annoying to me. I have been mocked countless times because of that...
Misery love company, maybe I should just take a look at...
A thought crossed my mind. Dark. Intrusive. The kind of thought that normal people would feel ashamed for having and immediately push away.
I didn't push it away.
Fifth Street...
That was where she worked. The corner near the liquor store.
I still had some cash left. A few hundred dollars, maybe.
"..."
What the fuck am I doing?
I kept walking. My feet carried me in a direction that my brain was screaming at me not to go. Every step felt heavier than the last. My heart was pounding—not from exertion, but from something else. Anticipation? Fear? Disgust at myself?
All three, probably.
"This is fucked up," I muttered. "This is genuinely, certifiably fucked up."
But...
Just one look.
One to know that someone... at least partly suffered like I did.
I kept walking.
The neighborhood got worse. Darker. The streetlights here were broken or flickering, casting long, unreliable shadows. The buildings were covered in graffiti—gang tags, crude drawings, threats. The people on the street were different too. Harder. More watchful. The kind of people who sized you up as you walked past, calculating whether you were worth robbing.
I pulled my hoodie tighter around myself and kept my head down. Old habits.
Then I saw them.
A group of women, standing on the corner under a flickering streetlight. There were maybe five or six of them, spaced out along the sidewalk. They were dressed... well. Dressed for work.
One was wearing a tiny red dress that was basically a bandage. Another had on a black corset and a skirt so short it was a belt. A third was in a neon pink tube top and fishnet stockings. They were all wearing heels—ridiculously high ones that made their legs look long and their asses look round.
They were talking, laughing, smoking. A few were on their phones. One was eating something out of a takeout container. They looked... normal. Casual. Like this was just another night at the office.
Which, for them, it was.
I slowed my pace. My Gamer Sight drifted over them automatically, tagging each one.
[Name: Tammy Reyes]
[Age: 31]
[Rank: Blank]
[Occupation: Sex worker]
[Name: Keisha Jones]
[Age: 27]
[Rank: E]
[Occupation: Sex worker]
[Ability: Minor Pheromone Control (can subtly influence mood of people within 1 meter)]
[Name: Linda Morris]
[Age: 34]
[Rank: Blank]
[Occupation: Sex worker]
I stopped.
Linda Morris.
She was standing slightly apart from the others, leaning against a lamppost. She was...
She was beautiful. It wasn't in a conventional way—not in the Sylvie "Instagram filter" way or the Bethany "bimbo Barbie" way. Beautiful in a worn, lived-in, seen-too-much way. Like a painting that had been left out in the rain but was still gorgeous underneath the water damage.
She had dark hair—brown, streaked with gray—that fell past her shoulders in loose waves. Her skin was tan, weathered by years of late nights and early mornings. She had high cheekbones, full lips, and dark eyes that were simultaneously tired and sharp. The kind of eyes that had seen everything and judged nothing.
Her body was... yeah. She was wearing a tight black dress that stopped mid-thigh, showing off legs that were long and toned despite her age. The dress was low-cut—very low cut—showing off a chest that was generous and natural, the kind of cleavage that came from genetics rather than surgery. Her hips were wide, her ass was round, and her waist was still defined despite the years.
She looked like a woman who had been stunning in her twenties and was still damn good-looking in her thirties.
Deep Focus.
[History: Born in the Flats. Never knew her father. Mother was a sex worker before her. Dropped out of high school at 16. Had Bucky at 17—father unknown, likely a client. Started working the streets at 18 to support her son. Has been doing it for 24 years. Has had multiple relationships, all abusive or transactional. Developed alcohol dependency at 25. Has been sober for 3 years. Works the Fifth Street corner exclusively, 4 nights a week.]
[Secrets: Has a savings account with $14,000 that she's been building for 6 years, intending to send Bucky to college. Bucky doesn't know about it. Has never told anyone. Once considered killing herself on the night of Bucky's 12th birthday after he awakened with rat traits and came home crying. Didn't do it because she heard him crying in the next room. Keeps a photo of Bucky from before his awakening in her wallet—the one where he still looked normal. Looks at it every night before she starts working. Has never told any of her clients about her son. Has been physically assaulted by clients 11 times. Has never reported any of them to the police because she doesn't trust the police.]
[Psychological traits: Deeply self-loathing but functional. Has constructed an emotional wall between her work life and her personal life that she maintains with rigid discipline. Genuinely loves her son despite being ashamed of how she supports him. Is terrified of aging and losing her earning power. Has a strong, survivalist intelligence that she hides behind a carefully maintained air of docility. Would kill for her son without hesitation.]
"..."
I stared at the text. Then at her. Then at the text again.
Fourteen thousand dollars. In a savings account. For Bucky's college.
A photograph in her wallet. From before his awakening. When he still looked normal.
She looked at it every night before she started working.
"..."
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
This was a mistake. This was a massive, colossal, catastrophic mistake. I should not be here. I should turn around. I should go home. I should—
"Hey, sweetheart."
I blinked. Linda was looking at me.
She'd noticed me standing there—frozen, staring, probably looking like a serial killer—and had straightened up from the lamppost. She was smiling. A practiced, professional smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"You lost, honey?"
"I—no. I'm not—"
"You looking for some company tonight?" She tilted her head, her dark eyes scanning me up and down. "You look a little young. How old are you?"
"Eighteen."
"Eighteen." She raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"
"I'm sure."
"Hm." She looked me over again, more slowly this time. Her gaze lingered on my new clothes, my fitted shirt, my clean jeans. Then it drifted up to my face—my pale skin, my dark circles, my messy hair. "You don't look like you're from around here. You from Midtown?"
"Yeah."
"Midtown kid wandering into Fifth Street at midnight." She laughed—a short, dry sound. "Either you're brave or stupid."
"Probably stupid."
"Probably." She smiled again. This time it was slightly more genuine. "So what brings you here, stupid? You looking for a good time?"
"I..." My throat was dry. My brain was short-circuiting. "I was just—walking. I was just walking."
"At midnight. On Fifth Street. Past six working girls."
"...Yes."
"Honey." She stepped closer. She smelled like perfume and cigarettes. "Nobody 'just walks' on Fifth Street at midnight. You're either here to buy, here to sell, or here to get robbed. And you don't look like a seller."
"I'm not here to buy."
"Then what are you here for?"
"I don't know."
She stared at me. Her dark eyes were searching, calculating. Trying to figure out what my deal was. I could see the gears turning behind that tired, beautiful face.
"You're nervous," she said. "You're shaking."
Was I? I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. Slightly, but noticeably.
"...Yeah."
"First time?"
"First time what?"
"I'm not looking for—"
"It's okay." Her voice softened. Not seductive—gentle. Almost motherly. "Everyone's nervous their first time. There's nothing to be ashamed of."
"I'm not ashamed. I'm just—"
She stepped even closer. She was right in front of me now, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off her body. She reached up and touched my cheek, her fingers cool and dry.
"You're cute," she murmured. "Young. Fresh. I could show you a good time, sweetheart. Make you forget about whatever's got you walking around Fifth Street at midnight looking like a ghost."
Her hand slid from my cheek to my neck. Her fingers were light, practiced, tracing a line down to my collarbone. Her chest was inches from mine. I could see the swell of her tits above the neckline of her dress—full, soft, natural. The kind of cleavage that made your brain stop working.
"I..." My voice cracked. "I should go."
"Go?" She laughed softly. "You just got here."
"I know. But I—I should—"
"Shh." She pressed a finger to my lips. "Relax. Let me take care of you. You seem tense. Stressed. I'm good at making stress go away."
Her other hand was on my hip now, her fingers curling into the waistband of my jeans. She was close. So close. Her lips were right there—full, painted, slightly parted.
"I—"
My brain crashed.
Like, fully, completely, blue-screen-of-death crashed. Every thought I'd had—about Bucky, about parasites, about power, about revenge—evaporated. There was nothing left but the feeling of her hands on my skin and the smell of her perfume and the sight of her tits and the absolute, overwhelming certainty that I was in way, way over my head.
"I have to go."
I stepped back. Quickly. Almost tripping over my own feet.
She blinked, surprised. "Honey—"
"I'm sorry. I have to—I can't—I'm sorry."
I turned around and started walking. Fast. Not running—that would've been too obvious—but close. My face was burning. My heart was hammering. My hands were shaking so badly I shoved them into my pockets just to hide them.
Behind me, I heard her call out: "You sure, sweetheart? I'm here every night!"
I didn't look back.
I kept walking. Past the women. Past the flickering streetlights. Past the liquor store. Out of Fifth Street and into the quieter, darker streets beyond.
"...What the fuck was that?"
I pressed my hands against my face, groaning into my palms.
"What the actual fuck was that, Noel?"
I'd gone there with... what intention, exactly? I didn't even know. To do what? To mock Bucky by looking at his mother?
No. I just wanted... hoped for someone going through the same shit I go through.
Well... I didn't really get that.
I was there expecting someone like Steph.
But instead, I'd found out that Bucky's mom had a savings account for her son's college education. That she carried a photo of him from before his awakening. That she'd almost killed herself on his birthday.
That she'd touched my cheek and called me cute and I'd completely fucking panicked.
"God. I'm such a mess."
I negated gravity on myself and jumped onto a rooftop. The city spread out below me, cold and indifferent.
I sat on the edge of the building, my feet dangling, my head in my hands.
"So even a piece of shit like bucky has someone that cares about him, huh..."
I didn't know how to feel about this.
I felt... strange.
"..."
Inside me, a dark, unsightly presence rose slowly like a snake, growing larger with each passing moment.
For a brief instant I wondered what it could be, but when it met my gaze, I knew.
They called that envy.