Chapter Text
The office was too cold. He could feel the chill of the AC on his skin, constantly drying the cold sweat that had formed all over his body. The shivering from the air mixed with his shivering of fear that hadn't stopped pressing against him since those strange men wearing all black clothes with black masks had dumped him in a chair and left the room. It had probably started before that though, since the moment he had felt a hand over his mouth and the moment he had been tossed into the back of a moving van.
Those men had been terrifying. They had been large and had had guns strapped to their legs, with one of them having a larger gun slung around his chest and held tightly in his grip. One of them had pointed one at him, right against the side of his temple. The cold press of the metal had dug into his skin, not enough to hurt, but enough for the pressure to be noticeable and for his breathing to pick up speed. They had told him to sit there and not move. He doesn't think he said anything, but he started crying after the gun was pulled away from him. It reminded him of when his dad used to have too much to drink. He would always get angry, would always wave his gun around and scream at people, pointing the metal weapon at whoever he was yelling at, usually his mom, but sometimes him too when he got caught staring for too long.
Miles tried to keep his sniffling under control, his hands trembling as he sat stiff as a board in a chair that was far too big for him. The cold metal was biting into the part of his legs that weren't covered by his shorts and his back hurt from hunching over his knees. He wasn't tied down to it, but he dared not move, in case those men came back and decided to tie him down after all, or wave their guns at him again.
His dad had never liked it when he cried too loudly, had always said it was annoying. He'd learned to make the tears quiet since he was little. Silent sobs that wracked his body, wet streaks of tears falling down the small expanse of his cheeks, his nose too stuffed to breathe with snot dripping out of it. All of those noises and the hiccups in his throat that he could stifle by biting his lip so hard it hurt. That was the trick.
But right now, his lip was raw and bloody, and the tears still wouldn't stop. He wrung his small hands together, his knuckles pale as he fought against the panic rising in his chest. This wasn't supposed to happen, he wasn't supposed to be here. He had just been walking to school, late as always, behind all of the other kids, and then a van had pulled up to the curb next to him and someone had reached out and grabbed him. A shrill scream had burst out of his lungs, his limbs had started flailing everywhere, cut short when a bag was pulled over his head and a pair of strong arms held down his legs. Now, he was here, wherever here was. A room that smelled like clean leather and smokey cigarettes, with the blinds drawn, and long grey shadows cast on the walls from the slits of light that managed to peak in through the windows. There was a large desk next to him with a leather chair pushed into the front of it; the desk was clear except for a small file sitting at the head, a lamp, and various organizational metal structures holding papers and pens. An ashtray sat on the table, fresh ashes inside of it, like someone had just been in this room before him. There were bookcases lining the back wall, and large filing cabinets that had locks on them. Everything was too neat, too clean, and it made him uncomfortable. He wanted to go home- no, not home. He wanted his mom. He wanted to run up to her and bury his face in her neck, he wanted her to hold him and sing those songs that he always liked, he wanted her blonde hair to fall over his face as she kissed his forehead and told him things would be okay. But she wasn't here anymore.
The door in front of him creaked open. Miles froze, his whole body setting to stone, his wet eyes snapping up to the large figure stepping inside.
The man was tall, dressed in a crisp black suit with shiny dress shoes that clacked steadily against the hardwood flooring. His face had sharp angles, stern and piercing, like he could cut someone in half just by looking at them. Slicked-back hair and a strong, tensed jaw accentuated the harsh demeanor of his body language. Miles shrank in the chair, trying to make himself as small as possible. Almost immediately, the man locked eyes with him as he strides into the room, his gaze heavy, pinning him in place like a insignificant bug pressed under a glass cup.
The man kept his pace calm, steady, and stopped short a few steps away from his chair. He let out a low, disapproving sound from his throat. "Tsk. You're even smaller in person."
Miles flinched at the sneering tone, scooting in his chair until his back hit the metal backing behind him.
The man crouched slightly, bending over with his hands on his knees to peer at him a little closer. "You look like a baby," he said, his voice full of taunt and his lips twitching like he might smile. The voice continued, curious, maybe amused. "How old are you, huh?"
Miles' voice came out in a shaky whisper.
"T-ten."
He doesn't look impressed. The man slowly stood back up, rolling his shoulders to his full height and chuckled, the sound cold and as sharp as the rest of his appearance. He rolled the number on his tongue casually, testing it out. "Ten. Well, you don't look it. You look like a damm baby." He pointed his finger at him, snapping it, as if deciding something with finality right on the spot.
"That's what I'll call you, then. Don't care what your real name is. You're Baby, now, got it?"
Miles blinked, his breathing unsteady. Baby?
The man didn't bother waiting for him to say anything or react to his newfound "name." He stepped over to the desk, picked up the single file, and flipped through it with practiced ease. His eyes scanned the pages, then he shook his head with a low, humorous laugh. "You've got guts, I'll give you that," he muttered, looking over the papers one last time before snapping the files shut.
"You have any idea what was in the truck of that Mercedes you stole, Baby?" The man rounded the table and stomped right up to him, putting his hands on his hips and raising an eyebrow like he was expecting a response. "Well? Do you?"
"I..." He swallowed hard, his mouth dry and his voice trembling. "I didn't-"
"Yeah, yeah, sure you didn't," the man cut him off, waving a hand around in the air dismissively. "Doesn't matter now. What matters is that you did do it, and I know it. The car? I don't care so much about that. Now, the stuff in the trunk? That I do care about. And you?" A finger was jabbed in his direction, pointed and close to his face. "You just drove off with it like it was a goddamn toy."
His chest felt like someone had taken a rock and bashed it in. The accusatory tone of the words, the hidden seething anger directed at him seemed to make the room feel so much smaller all of a sudden. His hands wouldn't stop their shaking, his fingers twisting painfully together, the skin next to his nails picked off and raw, like the rabid motions could somehow squeeze the fear out of him.
The man leaned down, his face mere inches away from Miles'. He could smell the cigarette smoke from the man's mouth, and the hint of some sharp, expensive cologne. That voice dropped low, dangerous.
"You're lucky I don't shoot kids. But make no mistake, Baby, you owe me. Big time."
Miles stared up at him, wide-eyed, those defined words sinking into his small frame, the scowl from the man's face cutting through him. Those bloodthirsty eyes bored into him, and he shrank back, instinctively curling in on himself. The way the man hovered over him, the unapologetic sneer, the tightness in his jaw, the way his voice had that low, simmering anger, just on the verge of something louder- it all reminded him of his dad.
His dad had been like that too. He used to stand just like that, pushed him low to the ground so he could hover over him, so he could reach down and grip at his face or tug on his hair. He used to loom, his voice rising in volume and in tone, until the yelling would turn into something worse. It wouldn't stop until he gave in and stopped fighting, letting fingers grip at his jaw and force his mouth open, with a stern warning to not bite, or else he'd regret it.
Miles squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, pushing the memory and the sudden bitter taste in his mouth out of his mind. For a drawn-out second, the fear spikes, hot and cold at the same time, rising up to prickle at the back of his neck. He wonders if this man will do that too- if he'll feel calloused fingers pushing apart his lips with force, and hear the sound of a metal belt buckle being loosened. He crosses his legs a little, as if that would save him if the answer was yes.
"You owe me," the man repeated, the words like a long, edged blade. "You took my car, you took what was in it, then you dumped it, and now you owe me a lot of money, Baby. A lot."
Miles' voice barely worked when he tried to speak. "I- I don't have any-"
"Don't have any money," the man interrupted him, his tone pitched high and mocking. "Yeah, no kidding. You're, what, a toddler? But what you do have is skill. I saw the way you drove that car. You've got a talent, and I intend to use it."
The tone of it was final. No arguing, no choices, no forgiveness. The man wanted something from him, and he couldn't say no.
He felt like a trapped animal, like he was in a cage and the metal bars were closing in on him as his fear finally boiled over completely. It had been teetering on a knife's edge for the whole time he had been here, but those words, the soul-crushing finality of them, pushed the knife overboard, the sharpness of it aimed right at him. His face scrunched up as the man continued to stare at him, his breathing picked up speed and his lip quivered until he snapped.
He bursts into tears.
Sudden, loud, shaky sobs that tore through his small chest. It caught him by surprise, the sheer volume of it, and when he realized what was happening, it only made him cry harder. He tried to stop- he tried, but the fear and the confusion and the awful, awful weight of everything was too much. His hands went up to his face to muffle his cries the best he could, but it seemed pointless. His vison wavered, salty drops of water pooling in his eyes, making the world around him and the face of the man blotchy and unfocused. They grew heavy enough to drip down his face in fast streams; some of it ended up soaked in the sleeves of his ratted sweater, and the rest of it drip-dropped onto his legs. His own wailing was loud, mixing with the ringing in his ears, a stream of high-pitched noises droning in and out in waves. It was giving him a headache, but he couldn't force himself to stop.
The man pulled back, startled, his sneer dropping for a moment, replaced by something else. He looked nearly confused, maybe even annoyed or angry, and that shift in his expression only made Miles feel shame pool in his chest. His shoulders heaved and shook, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as his nose filled with tears and the sobs stopped him from being able to breathe properly.
"Hey," the man said, his voice lower now, rougher, almost uncomfortable. "Cut that out."
He couldn't. He wanted to. He wanted to be quiet, to do what the man said, the way his dad had always demanded, but his tricks weren't working and now his mouth tasted like blood from all the biting.
He wanted his mom. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go back to the way things used to be, before the car accident, before he was dragged in here by those scary men in with guns and black masks. But there was none of that anymore, just the orphanage he hated, and this sneering, terrifying man standing in front of him.
The man stepped back, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh, exasperation flickering across his eyes and twitching across his frowned mouth like he didn't know what to do with him.
"Jesus," the man muttered, glancing at the closed door as if he were debating walking through it and leaving him here in a sticky pile of tears. He hears the man mumble something under his breath about "not wanting to deal with this", and, "should've just made someone else come in here."
But there was no one else, just Miles and that man in that suffocating large office, the sound of loud, broken sobbing filling the room and echoing around the colorless walls.
After a long moment, the man sighs again, longer this time, more drawn out, his voice turning gruff. "Pull yourself together, kid," he said, firm but not unkindly. "You want to make it out of here? Then you need to quit falling apart every time life gets a little tough. That's my first lesson for you."
He choked back his sobs, his check hiccupping with uneven jerky motions, his body shaking with the effort to obey the command. The man muttered something else under his breath that he couldn't catch, then turned and walked back over to the desk, giving him some much-needed space.
"You'll work off the debt," he said, measured, calm. "One job at a time. You do what I say, when I say it, and if you don't piss me off, and I don't break your neck, then maybe- maybe, you'll pay me back and I'll call us straight. Got it?"
Miles couldn't answer. He just sat there, trembling and crying more quietly now, his small hands fisted in the material of his old, frayed sweater.
He tried to imagine he was some place else; maybe at the diner his mom used to work at, or the public library he used to take naps in while his mom read him stories, or even his old, small bedroom that had been more of a refurbished closet than anything.
It didn't really help.
He stared at the polished, dark, wood flooring beneath his feet, and did his best to ignore the gaze he could feel on him from the other end of the desk. A wash of hopelessness settled into his skin as the tears ran dry and his breath took on a shaky, wispy quality.
He wanted to go home, but he couldn't. All there was was this, and he had to accept that.