Chapter 1: The Price of Survival

Debt doesn’t just haunt my family—it kicks down our door and settles in for dinner.

It’s the kind of debt that never lets up, stalking us through every moment, gnawing at whatever scraps of safety we have left. The kitchen counter is buried under stained envelopes, bills stacked like a dare. Every time the phone rings, my dad flinches as if the call might be a bullet. Lately, he wears that hunted look—a man waiting for the axe to fall.

The debt collectors didn’t just want money. They wanted me.

Their words stuck to the stale air in our living room, mixing with the smell of old pizza and spilled beer—the kind of funk that clings to cheap carpet. The blinds threw stripes across Malone’s scarred face, sunlight catching on dust motes as he spun his knife. One guy, heavyset in a battered Cubs cap, looked me up and down like I was just another thing to toss in their repo truck. Their voices were low, too casual—like they were just arguing over the price of a used car, not my body.

Then I saw the hope in my dad’s eyes…

There was a flash—a desperate, hungry brightness I hadn’t seen in years. He looked at me like he was waiting for me to step up, to save him, like that was just my job.

A memory slammed into me: I was eight, lying in bed as he whispered to Mom behind the bathroom door, swearing this was the last time. It never was.

My hands shook as I dialed the only number that made sense—the roommate who’d always watched me a little too closely.

"Derek, can you lend me some money?"

His laugh slid through the phone, lazy and dangerous:

"Nate, you know there’s no such thing as a free lunch in this world."

He said my name almost like a purr—like he’d been waiting for this call, knowing exactly what it would cost me.

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The debt collectors made a scene at our house again.

This time, my dad didn’t run. He was forced to his knees, trembling, surrounded by men whose boots tracked dirt onto our living room carpet.

The living room felt even smaller, packed with strangers in scuffed boots. The TV mumbled the morning news, ignored by everyone. My dad’s face was drained, shoulders hunched, waiting for a blow. The whole neighborhood had seen these men come and go.

Everything of value was already gone, but after tallying it up, we still owed $250,000.

Old trophies, my mother’s wedding china, the faded flatscreen—pawned or taken. The number—two hundred and fifty grand—was scrawled on a battered notepad on the kitchen table. It didn’t matter how many memories we boxed up. It was never enough.

My dad is a gambling addict. He always believes he’ll win it back. My mom divorced him for it. I thought he’d change, but he never did.

As a kid, he’d vanish for days, stumbling home reeking of whiskey and regret. My mom would cry behind the bathroom door while I lay in bed, trying to block out the shouting. After she left, it was just me and him—and his broken promises to get clean. I used to believe him. Not anymore.

A year ago, he got scammed. Lost half a million in one night. We’ve been hunted ever since.

It happened right after my graduation. He called at 3 a.m., voice slurred, swearing he’d hit the jackpot. The next thing I knew, we were dodging unknown numbers and keeping the porch lights off. Half a million, gone in hours—enough to torch whatever hope we had left.

The boss of the collectors—buzz cut, tattooed arm, a scar slashed across his face—was trouble from the jump. He spun a pocketknife in his hand, propped his boot on our recliner, and leered:

"Old man, you still owe two-fifty grand. If I can’t get the money, I’ll chop off your hand and bring it back as proof."

He said it with a lazy menace, like it was just another day. His boot left a muddy print on the recliner my dad used to watch Sunday games from. My stomach twisted. Even the dog hid under the table, silent as a ghost.

My dad started crying, begging over and over:

"Mr. Malone, I’ll get the money together soon, just give me a little more time."

The tears came fast, streaking down his face. He grabbed at Malone’s jacket, voice breaking—begging and making promises even he didn’t believe. Watching my dad—once the Friday night hero in this town—cry on his knees for a break, I felt something inside me snap.

Malone sneered:

"If I give you more time, you’ll probably skip town. I’ve been hanging around your place for months and finally caught you—how could I let you go? But—"

He dragged out the words, his gaze landing on me.

He looked me over like I was just another asset, something to pawn. My skin prickled, fists clenched in my lap as I tried not to flinch.

"Kid’s not bad looking. Sell him off, and you’ll clear your debt in no time. Hell, I’ll put down two grand just to be first."

The words hit like a punch. For a second, the room froze, everyone watching me. Malone’s buddies smirked, trading filthy jokes. The walls seemed to close in, my heart thudding hard enough to shake my ribs.

It was obvious what he meant. Malone wanted me to sell my body to pay the debt.

A sick heat crept up my neck. I wanted to scream or run or punch him, but all I could do was look at my dad—who couldn’t even meet my eyes. That was a kind of shame you never scrub off.

My dad finally looked at me, trembling, hope flickering in his eyes. He was probably wishing I’d offer, so he could pretend to resist, then give in like he was forced—his last, pathetic act.

I saw it—a glint, like he wanted me to fix his mess. I hated him for it. Hated how he made it my job without ever saying a word.

The collectors grinned, closing in on me, boots creaking on the linoleum, eyes hungry. I could smell cigarettes and cheap cologne, the stink of desperation hanging in the air. My throat closed up.

I blurted out, voice cracking:

"I—I can borrow the money!"

The words echoed too loud, freezing everyone in place. Even Malone paused—considering a new game.

Their footsteps stopped. My heart hammered like a trapped animal.

The air was electric, my hands shaking so bad I nearly dropped my phone. I prayed Derek would answer.

Right now, the only person I could think of was Derek—the college roommate who’d always had his eyes on me, who’d told me more than once he wanted more than friendship.

I never thought I’d be grateful for Derek’s attention, but right now, he was the only card I had left.