Chapter Text
Penthouse windows stretched from floor to ceiling, overlooking a city drowning in gold light and rain. Hundreds of stories below, traffic crawled through the streets in thin ribbons of cars. From up here, everything looked small, and manageable. Chance liked it that way. The glass of water in his hand had long since gone warm, untouched except for the slow swirl of water whenever he shifted. His phone buzzed again across the marble counter. Unknown Caller. The fifth time tonight. He declined it without looking. And a second later– Buzzing again. He narrowed his eyes, powering the phone off completely. He couldn’t deal with this right now. He scoffed softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face before tossing the phone farther across the counter, listening as it skidded to a stop, face down. “Obessive…” He muttered. It wasn’t like he couldn’t pay it— his debt, he means. That was the funny thing. The money sitting in his accounts could erase the debt ten times over without leaving a dent. Not even a tiny scratch. But every time he got closer to wiring it over, something stopped him. Spite, maybe. Pride. Maybe it was the sick satisfaction of knowing somebody out there was angry enough to keep chasing him over it. That was the most attention he ever got, at least. Or maybe he liked proving nobody could force him into anything. The rain hit harder against the windows. For a moment, his own reflection stared back at him in the glass— Tired eyes, wrinkled collar, the faint shadow of a scar disappearing beneath his throat. He jumped slightly as lightning flashed outside the window. And for half a second, he could have sworn he felt somebody behind him. Standing there. Almost like he could feel their breath on his neck. He spun around instantly, only to find nothing. Just the empty kitchen. He groaned, turning back around. Sleep deprivation. Again. Ever since he got into debt, this kept happening. Shapes in mirrors. Voices in his ears when he was alone. The feeling of somebody standing too close to him in crowded elevators. He hadn’t slept properly since. Eventually, exhaustion won. It always did. No matter how hard he tried to stop it. He collapsed sideways onto the couch somewhere near 4 AM, city lights bleeding dimly through his windows while thunder rolled somewhere. Chance couldn’t remember the time he’d last slept longer than three hours. It wasn’t even stress anymore. Stress implied urgency. This felt older than that– stretched thin over months until exhaustion became routine. The debt sat untouched in his inbox. $896,187.53. An amount so small compared to what sat in his accounts that it almost felt insulting. He could pay it right now. So why didn’t he? He stared at the numbers until the numbers blurred together beneath burning eyes. He’d almost paid it off. Multiple times. One press. That was all he needed to end all of this. The calls would stop, the emails would disappear. The stupid tight feeling in his chest every night would disappear. Instead, he didn’t. Despite it being the only thing keeping him up every single night. He’d typed in the amount multiple times. Confirmed the account number. Even sat there imagining what it would feel like to wake up without another notification waiting for him. No more ‘Unknown Caller ID’ calls. No more final notice emails. No more text messages regarding attempts to contact him. Normal people would have wanted that all to end. To finally have the weight lifted off their shoulders that they wouldn’t have to deal with all of that. Chance stared at the screen until it dimmed black in his reflection, and then closed the app. He finally understood why he couldn’t do it. Why he couldn’t pay it off. It wasn’t about money for him. It never was. He could care less about money, or how much he owed. Or how much they’ll take. If he paid it off, they would stop looking for him. That was it. No more voicemails. No more messages with his name in them. No more proof that somewhere, somebody thought about him every single day. It was pathetic. Actually pathetic. Chance knew that. But once that thought existed, he couldn’t force it back down again. He leaned against the kitchen counter now, phone clenched loosely in his hand while city lights shone outside his penthouse windows. The unread message on his screen glowed against the dark. ‘PLEASE CONTACT US IMMEDIATELY TO RESOLVE THIS MATTER.’ His chest ached strangely. Not fear, but something worse. Loneliness, maybe. He laughed once under his breath. A humorless laugh. “Jesus Christ…..” The penthouse around him was massive. Expensive. But silent. His parents used to leave him alone in houses like this constantly when he was younger. Bigger houses, even. Marble floors, empty hallways. Nannies rotating in and out every few months like temporary staff members in a hotel. Every birthday gift had been extravagant. Every conversation had lasted under five minutes. He remembered being thirteen and purposely failing half of his classes just to see if his parents would notice. Nobody did. Now he was 31, standing in a penthouse, attached to debt collection notices because at least somebody on the other end kept asking for him specifically. Pathetic. His chest tightened, and he scoffed softly at himself, reaching for a whiskey glass sitting on the coffee table, only to realize he’d emptied it half an hour ago. The silence pressed harder. It’s been a few hours, someone should have called by now. They always did. A reminder, a warning, some exhausted employee reading off a script in a flat monotone voice while struggling to not sound irritated with him. He was sure they were at this point though. ‘Mr. Sinclair, we’ve attempted to contact you several times regarding—” He knew that speech by heart now. Sometimes he let the voicemails play out just to hear another person's voice in the apartment. That realization sat ugly in his stomach. He glanced back at his phone again before he could stop himself. Nothing popped up. His fingers tapped restlessly against his knee. Maybe they’d finally given up. No— no. Chance wouldn’t accept that. He didn’t want them to give up. Because if they did give up, then what? No more notifications lighting up his phone screen at random hours. No more voicemails piling up when he lay awake staring at the ceiling. No more proof that somewhere out there, someone was thinking about him long enough to be annoyed. His jaw tightened. This was ridiculous. Eight hundred and ninety six thousand dollars. That’s what he’d been losing sleep over? No— not losing sleep over. Avoiding sleep over. There was a difference. Sleep meant silence. Sleep meant lying alone in a massive penthouse that felt too big for one person. It meant no distractions, no calls, no buzzing phone lighting up the dark every few hours like proof he still existed somewhere in somebody’s mind. He swallowed hard and rubbed at his eyes again. They burnt constantly now. His doctor had told him it was stress induced insomnia. Suggested medication. Less screen time. A healthier routine. Long story short, Chance never went back there. What did they know? They didn’t know anything. That was the thing. His phone suddenly vibrated against the couch. Were they finally calling again? He had hoped it was them despite himself. But even if it wasn’t, he would still be happy someone thought to call him. Hell, he didn’t even care if it was someone he didn’t know at all. His grip tightened on the edge of the couch, torn between reaching for it, and leaving it be. He could picture how irritated those people were at this point. Calling him, texting him. Emails, Voicemails. Over, and over and over again. Almost like this was a daily thing now. Like something you woke up every morning, dreading to do. But he really hoped they weren’t that annoyed with him. He knew that they wouldn’t give up on collecting his debt, but at the same time, what if they stopped calling him? What if they stopped interacting with him at all, and just watched silently as his interest rate racked higher and higher, waiting for him to pay. He couldn’t stand that thought. That they finally didn’t care as much as they did anymore. Did he even mean anything to them? Deep down, he hoped he had been making them pissed. He hoped that if he did ever pay it, which he didn’t plan on anytime soon, that they never forgot him. That every time they heard his name, they had this bitter feeling. That thought made him feel a bit better. The thought that still after he’s gone, someone would still remember him. Even if they weren’t the best people. They were the mafia for gods sake. Out of everyone you could choose to remember you after you’d passed, would you really choose a mafia? A crime organization? No one would. But it’s what Chance would have to work with right now, or at least the only thing he could work with right now. But despite that, he was grateful. He was grateful that he did have somebody. Even if they probably hated his guts. His eyes landed back on the phone, still ringing. He waited a few seconds, waiting for it to stop ringing. The second it did stop ringing, he grabbed it almost immediately. He may be too scared to actually answer calls, but voicemails were something he could handle. Something warm twisted in his chest before he could stop it as he unlocked his phone, scrolling to the missed call. ‘Missed call. Incoming voicemail.’ He breathed out a sigh of relief, laying back down and pressing the phone to his ear as he listened. The penthouse was now dark, the only sound was the rain pattering against the windows outside, and his soft breathing. ‘Ahem…’ There was a pause, followed by the voice again. ‘.....Mr. Sinclair, this is our twelfth attempt to reach you this week regarding your outstanding balance. Due to…..” He continued to listen, closing his eyes. He lay there, and despite everything, despite how exhausted he was, how miserable he felt, how badly he wanted to sleep— a small smile formed on his face.