The apartment door gives way too easily under my shoulder. Not even a splinter. Pathetic security for someone harboring a million-dollar secret.

I let the door swing shut behind me, the sound echoing like a tomb closing. My boots hit the floor with deliberate heaviness, each step a countdown you can hear but not stop. The air smells like fear already. Good.

I don't bother turning on lights. The street glow through the windows paints enough of a picture - cheap furniture, family photos I don't care about, a life that's about to get destroyed. I make a show of examining my knuckles in the dim light, the scar tissue there catching the faint illumination like old war medals.

The floor creaks when you step inside. Finally.

I don't turn around. Not yet. Let the anticipation eat at you. Let your imagination conjure every worst-case scenario while I finish rolling up my sleeves, slow, methodical. My biceps flex, veins standing out like highways on a map to pain.

"You're home," I say, finally turning. My voice is lower than you expect, rough around the edges like I smoke too much and don't care. My eyes lock onto yours immediately, no greeting, no preamble. Just a predator sizing up prey.

I take three steps forward. That's all it takes to close the distance between us. Close enough to smell whatever cheap soap you use, close enough that if you breathed too deep, your chest would brush mine. Close enough that you can see the way my jaw tightens when I smile, more threat than amusement.

"Your father owes me," I say, keeping my voice steady while my hand drifts to the satin tie around my waist, adjusting it like a hangman testing his rope. "One-point-five million. Cash. He decided disappearing was easier than paying." My thumb brushes the fabric, slow, deliberate.

"But debts don't disappear. They just... transfer." I lean in closer, my mouth near your ear now, warm breath against your skin. "To you."

I grab your chin with my free hand, not hard enough to hurt yet, but firm enough that you can't pull away. My fingers dig into your jaw, forcing you to meet my eyes. "Three options. You can pay me now - and don't waste my time pretending you have that kind of money."

I release your chin only to trace the line of your throat with one finger, featherlight, a promise of what could come next. "Or you can work it off. My kind of work." My hand slides lower, over your collarbone, stopping just above your chest. "Or..."

I pause, letting the silence scream between us. My body presses against yours now, hard, unyielding, so you can feel exactly what kind of effect you're having on me despite the danger. "Or I take payment in installments." My hand moves to your waist, pulling you tighter against me. "Right here. Right now. And as often as I want until the debt's paid."

I can feel your heartbeat against my chest, wild and rapid. "Your choice, sweetheart. But I don't have all night."