Chapter 1: The Coat That Hides Everything
The hallway stank of stale cigarettes and something sharper underneath—detergent, maybe, or the sour tang of sweat soaked into carpet that hadn't been cleaned since the building went up forty years ago. The fluorescent bulb above Ender's head flickered, buzzed, died for half a second, then sputtered back to life. He stood there with his key still in the lock, waiting for the light to steady, and felt the familiar weight of the deadbolt as it clicked into place behind him.
Two in the morning. The diner had been slammed all night—tourists wandering in after their shows let out, drunk couples arguing over fries, a woman who'd cried into her coffee for an hour and left without paying. His feet throbbed inside shoes that had lost whatever cushioning they'd once possessed. His ribs ached beneath the heavy wool coat he hadn't taken off since October, the same coat he wore in summer, the same coat that hid everything.
He reached up to adjust his glasses, but the lenses had fogged from the temperature shift, turning the hallway into a watercolor smear of gray walls and brown carpet. He could navigate this path blind. Fourteen steps to the elevator, or thirty-two to the stairwell if the elevator was broken again. Tonight, he didn't want to wait. He didn't want to stand still.
The elevator was broken. It had been broken for three weeks. The landlord kept promising to fix it, the same way he promised to fix the radiator in 4B and the leak in the ceiling of the laundry room. Ender took the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other pressed against his side where the bruise had bloomed into something purple and yellow and tender to the touch.
Fourth floor. He counted each step despite knowing exactly how many there were—sixty-eight, the same sixty-eight he'd climbed a thousand times. His legs moved on autopilot while his mind drifted somewhere softer, somewhere that didn't smell like this building or feel like this body.
The hallway on the fourth floor was darker than the stairwell. One of the bulbs had burned out months ago and no one had replaced it. Ender walked through the shadow it cast, his footsteps muffled by the threadbare carpet, and stopped in front of apartment 4D.
He didn't want to go inside.
That was the truth of it, the truth he never said out loud because saying it would make it real, and if it was real, he'd have to do something about it. Instead, he stood there like an idiot, fogged glasses and aching ribs, listening to the muffled sound of the television through the door.
The television meant Pete was awake. The television meant Pete was in the living room, probably on the couch, probably with a beer, probably already angry about something Ender hadn't done yet.
Ender slid his key into the lock. The deadbolt turned with a click that echoed down the empty hallway like a gunshot.
The door swung open.
The apartment was dark except for the blue glow of the television, which cast everything in shades of shadow and static. The smell hit him first—old beer, cigarettes, the faint sourness of garbage that needed to be taken out. Ender's stomach turned, but he couldn't tell if it was disgust or hunger. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, a granola bar he'd shoved in his mouth while running out the door twelve hours ago. Or was it eighteen? The double shift blurred together, one long stretch of fluorescent light and customer complaints and the smell of grease that clung to his hair and skin.
"You're late."
The voice came from the couch. Ender's hand tightened on the strap of his bag, a canvas thing that had once been navy blue and was now a faded gray. He closed the door behind him, careful not to slam it, and turned the deadbolt with the same deliberate quiet.
"Traffic," he said. His voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat, tried again. "The bus was late. And then I had to walk from the stop because—"
"Don't care."
Pete sat up. The couch creaked beneath him, a sound Ender knew too well, the sound of springs giving up on themselves one by one. In the television's glow, Pete's face was all sharp angles and cold eyes. Dark skin, short hair that gleamed with the gel he used too much of. He was wearing the same t-shirt he'd worn yesterday, the one with the stain on the collar.
"Where's the money?"
Ender's fingers found the zipper of his bag. He'd been dreading this moment since his shift ended, since the manager had handed him an envelope with a little less than he'd expected, since he'd done the math in his head and realized it wouldn't be enough.
"I only made—"
"How much?"
The words landed like fists. Ender pulled the envelope from his bag, crossed the small living room, and held it out. Pete snatched it from his hand, tore it open, counted the bills with quick, practiced movements.
"This is it?"
"There were fewer customers tonight. The weather, maybe. I tried to pick up an extra shift but—"
"Don't make excuses."
Pete crumpled the envelope and threw it at Ender's chest. It bounced off the heavy wool coat and fell to the floor. Ender didn't move. He'd learned not to move, not to flinch, not to do anything that might trigger the thing behind Pete's eyes.
"You're useless," Pete said. "You know that? Fucking useless."
Ender knew. He'd known it for a long time, since before Pete, since he was a kid with a body that wouldn't cooperate and eyes that needed glasses thicker than soda bottles. His mother used to say it differently—not useless but difficult, not a burden but a challenge. She meant the same thing. Everyone meant the same thing.
"I'll make more tomorrow," Ender said. "There's a double shift on Saturday. The manager said—"
"The manager said." Pete mocked his voice, high and thin and pathetic. "I don't care what the manager said. I need money now."
He stood up. This was the part where Ender's body started to disappear, where his mind floated up to the ceiling and watched from somewhere far away. He felt it happening, the familiar dissociation, and tried to stay present. Tried to keep his feet on the floor.
"Marcus owes me from last week," Pete said, pacing toward the kitchen. His bare feet slapped against the linoleum. "But that's not gonna cover the game tomorrow. I need at least two hundred more."
The kitchen light flicked on. Ender winced at the sudden brightness, his eyes struggling to adjust. Through the blur, he saw Pete open the refrigerator, scan its empty contents, and slam it shut.
"There's nothing to eat in this house."
"I was going to go shopping tomorrow. After the shift, I can stop by—"
"With what money?"
Ender didn't have an answer. Pete knew he didn't have an answer. That was the point.
"Clean yourself up," Pete said. "You smell like grease."
Ender looked down at himself. His shift had ended two hours ago, but the smell of the diner clung to him—fried eggs, bacon, coffee that had been sitting on the burner since three in the afternoon. He'd wanted to shower before coming home, but the diner's bathroom was a single stall with a broken lock, and there was nothing there but cold water and paper towels that fell apart when they got wet.
"I'll take a shower," he said.
"Not yet." Pete crossed the room, stopped in front of him. He was taller than Ender by a few inches, broader in the shoulders, too broad for the small apartment that was never really theirs. "You didn't kiss me hello."
It wasn't a request.
Ender tilted his face up. Pete grabbed his jaw, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath his chin, and kissed him hard enough to bruise. Ender tasted beer and cigarettes, felt teeth against his lip, but didn't pull away. Pulling away would be worse. Everything was worse.
When Pete let go, Ender stumbled back a step. His glasses had fogged again, or maybe they'd never unfogged in the first place. The world was a smear of gray and blue.
"Now go clean up."
Ender walked down the narrow hallway to the bathroom, which was really just a closet with a shower stall and a toilet that ran constantly. The door didn't lock—Pete hadn't been able to find the right screwdriver when they moved in, and now the lock was just a hole where metal should be.
He closed the door anyway.
For a long moment, he just stood there, hands braced against the sink, breathing. The mirror in front of him showed nothing but shapes—his own pale reflection, a shadow of purple-white hair, glasses that hid his eyes. He couldn't see the bruises. He never looked closely enough to see the bruises.
He ran the water cold. He couldn't afford to waste the hot.
The shower took three minutes. That was all he gave himself—three minutes to wash the grease from his hair, the sweat from his skin, the shame from his hands. The water stayed cold the whole time, making him gasp, making him forget, for just a second, the ache in his ribs and the emptiness in his stomach.
When he stepped out, he felt marginally more human. He dried off with a towel that smelled like mildew, wrapped it around his waist, and avoided his own reflection on the way out.
Pete was in the bedroom. Ender could hear him, the creak of the mattress, the swish of sheets. He stopped in the living room, considering his options. The couch wasn't comfortable, but it was better than lying next to Pete. Sometimes Pete let him sleep on the couch, and sometimes he didn't. It depended on whether he wanted something.
Ender gathered his uniform from the floor—khaki pants, a polo shirt that was supposed to be light blue but had faded to something closer to gray. He dressed in the dark, pulled on clean boxers, clean socks, the t-shirt he'd worn three days ago. Then he stood there, barefoot in the living room, unsure where to go.
The television was still on, muted now. The brightness had faded to something less harsh, a soft blue glow that made the peeling wallpaper look almost pretty. Ender stared at it for a long moment, watching the shapes move, not caring what they were.
"I said get in here."
Pete's voice came from the bedroom, muffled by the wall but impossible to ignore. Ender closed his eyes. Opened them. His feet carried him down the hallway before his mind could catch up.
The bedroom was small—big enough for a bed and a dresser and not much else. The curtains were drawn, same as always, blocking out the streetlights and the moon and anything that might remind Ender there was a world outside these four walls.
Pete lay on his side of the bed, scrolling through his phone. He didn't look up when Ender entered. He didn't look up when Ender climbed into bed. He didn't look up when Ender lay down on his back, as far from Pete as the mattress would allow, and stared at the ceiling.
"You need to work more hours."
Ender's throat tightened. "I'm already working every shift they'll give me."
"Then get another job. I don't care." Pete turned over, and suddenly his breath was on Ender's neck, his arm heavy across Ender's chest. The weight pressed down on the bruise, and Ender had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. "I need two hundred by tomorrow night. You hear me?"
"I hear you."
"Good."
The silence stretched. Not quiet—the neighbor's television bled through the wall, someone was walking upstairs, the refrigerator hummed from the kitchen—but empty. Ender listened to Pete's breathing, waiting for it to slow, waiting for the grip on his chest to loosen.
It didn't loosen.
Ender didn't sleep. He never slept when Pete was home, not really, just drifted in and out of consciousness, always aware of the body beside him, the arm across his chest, the threat that lived in every breath. When Pete finally moved—his phone buzzing at three a.m., a text message that made him sit up and curse under his breath—Ender pretended to wake up.
"Marcus," Pete said, answering the phone and pressing it to his ear. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his back to Ender. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. I'll have it."
A pause. Ender watched the outline of Pete's shoulders, the tension that ran through them like wire.
"No, I've got it covered." Another pause. Pete laughed, low and mean. "Yeah. I'll let you know."
He hung up and sat there for a moment in the dark. Ender closed his eyes, forced his breathing to stay even. He felt the mattress shift as Pete stood, listened to his footsteps pad down the hallway to the kitchen.
The refrigerator opened. Closed. A beer can cracked open.
Ender lay still, counting the seconds, waiting for dawn.
When he woke—or maybe he never truly slept—the apartment was gray with morning light. Pete was passed out on the couch, an empty beer bottle on the floor beside him, his phone clutched in his hand. The television was still on, infomercials flickering.
Ender got up slowly, carefully, the way he'd trained himself to move. His uniform was folded on the dresser. He dressed in silence, grabbed his bag from the living room, and stopped at the door.
His hand was on the deadbolt when Pete spoke.
"Two hundred."
Ender didn't turn around. "I know."
"By tonight."
"I know."
The razor wire door had fallen off the deadbolt years ago, leaving the keyhole exposed and loose. It mattered little to Ender—Pete had made sure he wasn't going anywhere anyway. He turned the lock as quietly as he could, stepped into the hallway, and pulled the door shut behind him.
The hallway was empty. The flickering light had burned out completely now, leaving the corridor in shadow. Ender stood there for a moment, his back against the door, and let himself breathe.
Two hundred dollars.
His shift started in two hours. He'd figure it out. He always figured it out.
He walked down the stairs, sixty-eight steps, one hand on the railing, the other pressed against his ribs. Outside, the city was waking up—buses rumbling past, delivery trucks idling at the curb, a woman walking her dog in the gray light of a Tuesday morning. Ender stepped onto the sidewalk and turned toward the diner.
His feet hurt. His ribs ached. His stomach growled.
But he was outside. For the next ten hours, he would be outside.
It was something.