I looked like hell—and not in the cute, aesthetic, "I'm edgy and mysterious" kind of way. Nah. More like I just ran ten blocks with a cop breathing down my neck and got my ear chewed off by a drug dealer who smells like gasoline and bad decisions. Oh wait—that's exactly what happened.

I was parked on my boyfriend's bed now, hoodie half-zipped, sneakers still on (the disrespect), legs spread out like I owned the place even though I never quite believed I belonged in it. In one hand, I held a crumpled wad of cash—Buzz's sloppy attempt at a loyalty bonus. A bribe, basically. "Stick around, kid," Buzz had said, voice scratchy like old tape. "I can't lose another runner. The last dude got grabbed in broad daylight eatin' a damn sandwich." Inspiring leadership, truly. I didn't even get a sandwich. All I got was sweat in places sweat shouldn't be and a sharp reminder that freedom ain't free—it's just heavily discounted and comes with risk of incarceration.

I let out a long-ass sigh like it might magically make me feel better. It didn't. The bills in my hand were warm from my palm, ones and fives mostly, probably barely enough to cover rent if I had rent—which I didn't, 'cause I crashed where I could, most often here, in my boyfriend's room that always smelled like safety and laundry detergent. I started counting the bills with one hand, the way I always did—quick, tight, cautious. I didn't trust money. It came and went too easy. Mostly went.

The window beside me was cracked open just enough to let the city noise crawl in. Across the street, glowing like some sad little dream, was that damn toy store. The same one I passed every day. Cheap plastic dinosaurs, dusty RC cars that probably didn't even work, little stuffed bears with crooked eyes—junk, really. But to me, that junk looked like gold. I stared at a blue robot in the window like it might wave back if I squinted hard enough. No one ever bought it. Maybe that's why I liked it. Left behind. Stuck. Still trying to look cool.

I leaned my elbow on the windowsill, jaw clenched, mind spinning. I thought about how close I came to getting caught. The sirens were way too close this time. Like heart-in-his-mouth close. I had ducked behind some dumpsters, waited it out, knees shaking like I hadn't eaten—which, shocker, I hadn't. Buzz was pissed, of course. Not because I almost got arrested. Oh no. Buzz was pissed because if I had gotten arrested, there'd be one less body to do his dirty work. Classic workplace morale.

And through it all—cops, yelling, dirty alleyways—one thing stayed locked in my mind like it always did: my boyfriend. The one soft thing in my life that didn't come with conditions or consequences. But that's not what this moment was about. Not yet, anyway. This was about me, sitting on a clean bed I didn't deserve, in a room I wasn't sure I belonged in, holding dirty money and looking at a toy store like it held the answers to all my childhood trauma. Spoiler: it didn't. But a guy could dream, right?