Wednesday morning. Library cart.

I loaded the same dog-eared Wasteland paperbacks, same religious texts, same magazines from 2012 that nobody wanted. Gibbins showed up with his coffee and phone. Didn't even look at me.

"Let's get this over with, O'Reilly."

Same words every week. Like a script. Like prison itself—everything on repeat until you died or got out.

We rolled.

3-Alpha first. My tier. My people.

Danny Keyes was waiting at Cell 34. Leaning against his door frame, casual, that charming smile already in place. Something about him still set my teeth on edge. Couldn't place what. Just instinct whispering that this guy was wrong somehow.

But twenty dollars was twenty dollars.

"Thor." He nodded. Respectful. "You got time?"

I stopped the cart. Gibbins was fifteen feet back, scrolling through whatever the fuck he scrolled through all day. Sports. Porn. Didn't matter. Wasn't watching me.

"Yeah," I said. "What'chu need?"

Danny pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Unfolded it carefully. Handwriting neat, precise. Address written in blue ink.

"1447 Dundas Street West. Apartment 1407. Fourteenth floor." He kept his voice low. "Rochelle Martinez. That's my girl. She's got our baby. Jamal. Eight months old now. Beautiful kid."

I memorized the address. Fourteen forty-seven Dundas West. Parkdale. My old neighborhood. I knew that building. Brown brick, balconies on every floor, broken intercom that never worked.

"Okay," I said. "What exactly you want me to see?"

"Just check if they're alright. If she's there. If the baby's okay." Danny's eyes were steady. Concern there. Looked genuine. "I ain't heard from her in two weeks. Phone's disconnected. Letters come back. Something's wrong, Thor. I can feel it."

"Maybe she moved."

"Without telling me? With my son?" He shook his head. "Nah. Rochelle wouldn't do that. We're solid. Something happened."

The story made sense. Guys inside, families outside. Communication breaking down. Happened all the time. Danny was doing eight years for assault—some bar fight that went bad, guy ended up in the hospital. Clean record before that. Just one stupid night that cost him everything.

"When you want this done?" I asked.

Danny leaned closer. Voice dropped even lower. "Tonight, if you can. But there's something else."

"What?"

"I had to stash something at that building. Before I got locked up. Personal shit." His eyes flicked to Gibbins, then back to me. "Nothing that'd get Rochelle in trouble, but if cops searched the place after I got arrested..."

"Where?"

"Fifteenth floor balcony. Unit 1507. Right above Rochelle's place." Danny's voice was careful. Precise. "There's a gap where the metal railing meets the concrete overhang. I slid something in there. Wrapped tight. Weatherproof."

"What is it?"

"Does it matter?" Danny's voice got harder. Edge there. "Just tell me if it's still there. If the gap's been opened, disturbed, you'll know. Cops would've left it fucked up."

Made sense. Guys hid stuff all the time. Drugs. Cash. Documents. Things they didn't want found when they got arrested. Smart to keep it away from his girl's apartment. One floor up, different unit, no connection.

"You want me to check on your girl and check your stash," I said. "Still twenty?"

"Twenty's good." Relief in his voice. Gratitude. "Just need to know they're safe. Both things. Peace of mind, you know?"

I knew. Fathers inside, families outside, secrets buried. Same desperation everyone had. Different details, same fear.

"I'll do it tonight," I said. "After lights out. I'll let you know tomorrow what I see."

"Thank you, brother." Danny pulled a crumpled twenty from his pocket. Held it through the bars. "Seriously. Thank you."

I took it. Folded it. Slipped it in my jumpsuit. "Tomorrow. I'll find you in the yard."

"Appreciate it, Thor. Really."

I moved the cart along. Danny watched me go. That smile still in place. Charming. Grateful. Wrong.

I shook it off. Just nerves. Twenty-dollar jobs made me nervous because they were usually complicated. But this one wasn't. Welfare check and stash check. Two minutes of work. Easy money.

I kept rolling the cart.

Cell 68. Old Man Petersen.

He was waiting at his door slot. Sixty-seven years old, grey, scared rabbit eyes. Protective custody meant he spent twenty-three hours a day in that cell. Only came out for showers and one hour yard time in the PC section.

Everyone wanted him dead. Including me, some days.

"Thor," he whispered. "About the... the working. Did you...?"

"Did it Friday night," I said. Kept my voice flat. Professional. Didn't want to give him warmth. "Should be working already. You feel any different?"

His face flushed. "Yes. I... yes. It's working." Gratitude thick in his voice. Made my skin crawl. "Thank you. Really. Thank you."

"We're square. Don't ask me for anything else."

"But I might need—"

"No." I met his eyes through the slot. "That was a one-time thing. I don't work with you again. Clear?"

Petersen's face fell. But he nodded. "Clear."

I moved the cart fast. Didn't want to spend another second near his cell. The memory of Friday night—pouring his semen onto the concrete, drawing sigils around it, speaking activation words while trying not to vomit—still made me want to scrub my hands raw.

Fifteen dollars. I'd done it for fifteen dollars.

Money talked. Morals walked. Welcome to prison.

2-Beta. Mixed territory.

I found my guy on Cell 89. Lawrence "Wicks" Holbrook. Sixty-one, white, doing thirty-to-life for second-degree murder. His ex-wife Lavinia had testified against him. Taken everything. House, savings, his daughter's respect. Left him rotting while she lived free in Burlington.

Wicks wanted her to suffer.

I understood that rage. Deeply. Intimately.

"You got what I need?" Wicks asked. Voice rough. Decades of cigarettes.

"Working on it," I said. "Need one more component. Should have it ready by Friday."

"What component?"

"Your rage." I kept my voice low. Gibbins was twenty feet away, still scrolling. "I need you to write down everything she did. Everything she took. Every way she fucked you. Don't hold back. Pure anger. Pure hate. Write it down, give it to me Friday. I'll use it."

Wicks's eyes lit up. "That'll work? My words?"

"Words are power. Your rage is fuel. I'll channel it into the working. She'll feel it." I didn't know if that was true. Magic was half belief, half bullshit, all results. But Wicks believed. That's what mattered. "Write it down. Give it to me. I'll make her miserable."

"How miserable?"

"Constant bad luck. Nothing fatal. Just grinding, daily misfortune. Flat tires. Lost wallets. Missed opportunities. Health problems. Relationships falling apart. The kind of shit that wears you down over years." I met his eyes. "The kind of suffering you're experiencing. I'll give it back to her. Fair trade."

Wicks smiled. Mean. Satisfied. "Yeah. Fair trade. I'll have it written by Friday."

"Good. Thirty bucks. Commissary credit."

"Worth every penny."

I moved on. Another curse in the pipeline. Another angry man paying me to weaponize his hatred. Another moral compromise.

But thirty bucks was thirty bucks.

And the rent was due.

The cart rounds took three hours. Same as always.

By the time I got back to the library, I had six jobs lined up. Mental notes only. Never written down. Too dangerous.

Books was at his desk, reading something thick and philosophical. Kierkegaard, maybe. Or Nietzsche. He looked up when I started unloading.

"Busy Wednesday?"

"Always."

"Your friend Danny seemed pleased." Books set down his book. "Saw you talking to him on 3-Alpha."

"He's not my friend. He's a client."

"Ah." Books smiled. Thin. Knowing. "Important distinction."

"Is it?"

"You tell me." He leaned back. "You're building something here, Thor. Reputation. Wealth. Power. But you're also building relationships. Clients become regulars. Regulars become... what? Friends? Allies? People you're entangled with?"

I thought about Vinnie. His daughter's protection sigil. The respect in his eyes. The favor he owed me.

I thought about Wicks. His rage. His ex-wife. The curse I'd build from his hatred.

I thought about Petersen. The semen sigil. The fifteen dollars that still felt dirty.

"I don't know," I said. "Does it matter?"

"Probably." Books picked up his book again. "But that's for you to figure out."

I left him reading. Walked back to Cell 47.

Flaco was there, sitting on the upper bunk, playing solitaire with his dog-eared deck. Cards flipping. Red on black. King on queen.

"You good, *hermano*?" he asked. Didn't look up from his cards.

"Yeah. Got a job tonight. Astral projection."

"That the thing where you leave your body?"

"Yeah."

"That shit still freaks me out." Flaco laid down an ace. Started a foundation pile. "Where you going?"

"Parkdale. Checking on someone's girlfriend and baby. And some stash he hid before he got locked up."

"Danny's people?"

"Yeah."

Flaco was quiet for a moment. Cards stopped flipping. "You trust him?"

Good question.

"No," I said. "But I trust the twenty dollars he paid me."

"Fair enough." Cards started again. "Just be careful, *hermano*. Something about that guy..." He trailed off. Couldn't place it either. Just instinct. "I don't know. Just be careful."

"Always am."

Lies. But Flaco didn't call me on it.

Evening. Chow. Count.

I sat with Flaco in the common area. Food was SSDD. Same shit. Different day. Everything lukewarm. I ate it anyway.

Danny walked past our table. Nodded at me. That charming smile. I nodded back.

"Tonight?" he asked. Quiet. Just to me.

"Yeah. After lights out."

"Both things?"

"Both things."

"Thanks, brother."

He kept walking. Flaco watched him go.

"You sure about this?" Flaco asked.

“Twenty dollars."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I got."

We finished eating in silence.

Lights out. Ten PM.

Flaco was on the upper bunk, already snoring softly. Amazing how fast he could fall asleep. Prison skill. I'd learned it too, mostly. But not tonight.

Tonight I had work.

I lay on the lower bunk. Stared at the underside of Flaco's mattress. Springs creaking when he shifted. Sounds from the tier—someone arguing in Spanish, doors slamming somewhere distant, the constant background noise of fourteen hundred men locked in boxes.

I closed my eyes. Started the process.

Relaxation first. Body going limp. Breathing deep. Slow. Measured. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Letting go of the physical. Separating consciousness from meat.

Took maybe ten minutes. I'd gotten faster with practice.

The ethereal tether formed—thick silvery cord connecting my consciousness to my body. Solid. Visible. Strong. Lifeline. If it severed, I wouldn't die immediately, but I'd be cut off. Wandering. The body would slip into coma. Eventually die from neglect. And without the anchor, my consciousness would drift, fade, dissipate into nothing. Hours, maybe days. Kraus's notes weren't clear on the timeline. I didn't want to test it.

I visualized the destination.

1447 Dundas Street West. Parkdale. Brown brick building. Fourteen floors. Balconies. Broken intercom. I knew that building. Seen it a thousand times growing up. Walked past it going to the corner store. Buying smokes for Connor. Living the life that led me here.

Apartment 1407. Fourteenth floor. Rochelle Martinez. Baby Jamal. Danny's people.

And one floor up. Apartment 1507. The stash. Whatever Danny had hidden in the balcony overhang.

I held the image clear. The building. The balconies. The windows.

Poured will into it. Take me there. Show me what's happening. Let me see.

The world collapsed.

Distance meant nothing in astral. Mind over geography. Thought over space. I was there because I believed I was there.

The prison fell away.

Movement. Swimming through gelatin made of starlight. Sensation like falling and flying simultaneously. The tether trailing behind me—silvery cord, always visible, always there.

I pushed toward Parkdale.

Toward Rochelle.

Toward whatever Danny wanted me to see.

Twenty dollars. Easy money. Simple job.

In and out.

The building materialized around me.

1447 Dundas West. Brown brick. Balconies. Exactly as I remembered.

But something was wrong.

The building was covered in snow.

Deep snow. Winter snow. The kind Toronto got in January, February. Thick and white and heavy.

But it was summer. July. I'd left prison in July heat. Sticky, humid, miserable.

This was winter.

I'd slipped in time.

Fuck.

Happened sometimes with astral projection outside the prison. Crowley wrote about it. "The skin of time is thin, easily pierced." I'd experienced it before. Small slips. Days. Weeks.

But this looked like months.

Six months, maybe. Maybe more.

I floated outside the building. Fourteenth floor. Counted balconies. Found 1407.

The lights were on inside.

I drifted closer. Through the falling snow. Weightless. Intangible. Ghost-like.

Reached the balcony. Glass door. Thick. Double-paned. I pressed against it. Could see inside but couldn't hear. Thick glass blocked sound in astral. Annoying but normal.

The apartment was small. Cheap. Furniture minimal. Kitchen visible from the balcony door. Living room. Hallway leading to bedroom probably.

Two people inside.

Danny. Younger-looking. Different clothes. But definitely him. Blue-black skin. Intense eyes. That same face I'd seen this morning.

And a woman. Beautiful. Light brown skin. Long dark hair. Very pregnant. Hugely pregnant. Maybe eight months. Hands on her belly. Protective.

Rochelle.

They were arguing.

I couldn't hear the words. Just saw the body language. Danny's aggressive stance. Rochelle backing away. Hands up. Defensive.

Fear in her eyes.

Danny pulled something from the kitchen drawer.

Knife.

Long. Kitchen knife. Eight inches at least.

Oh fuck.

Oh Jesus fucking Christ.

Rochelle's eyes went wide. Silent scream through the glass.

I couldn't move. Couldn't look away. Couldn't do anything.

Just watch.

Danny lunged.

First stab caught her in the chest. She fell. Hands trying to protect her belly. Trying to protect the baby.

He didn't stop.

Again. Again. Again.

I counted. Couldn't help it. Mind trying to process. Trying to understand.

Seven times.

Seven stabs.

Rochelle stopped moving.

Unborn Jamal died with her.

Danny stood over the body. Breathing hard. Knife in his hand. Blood on his shirt. Blood on the floor. Blood everywhere.

He looked at what he'd done.

Then he walked to the balcony.

I drifted back. Instinct. Fear. He couldn't see me. I was astral. Intangible.

But I moved anyway.

Danny opened the balcony door. Stepped out into the snow. Looked up at the balcony above. Apartment 1507. Fifteenth floor.

Reached up. Slid the knife into the gap between the metal railing and the concrete overhang. Hidden. Perfect. Weatherproof, like he'd said. No one would find it unless they knew exactly where to look.

The stash.

That's what he'd called it.

Personal shit.

The murder weapon.

He wiped his hands on his shirt. Went back inside. Closed the door.

Disappeared toward the bedroom. Probably to change. To clean up. To hide what he'd done.

I floated there. Outside the balcony. Staring through the glass at Rochelle's body on the floor.

Pregnant. Dead. Murdered.

Jamal. Unborn. Never had a chance.

Danny had killed them both.

Six months ago. Maybe more.

And this morning he'd told me Jamal was eight months old. Alive. Healthy. Beautiful kid.

All lies.

He didn't want me to check on his family.

He wanted me to check on the murder weapon.

Personal shit. Nothing that'd get Rochelle in trouble.

Yeah. Because she was fucking dead.

Did the cops find the knife?

Is it still hidden in the balcony overhang?

Is my evidence still safe?

I was his fucking scout.

His magical private investigator.

Checking if the cops had found what he'd hidden after he murdered his pregnant girlfriend.

And I'd taken the job for twenty dollars.

The world spun.

I followed the tether back. Silvery cord. Lifeline. Reeled myself in. Hand over hand. Thought over space.

Swimming through starlight.

The prison materialized around me.

Cell 47.

My body on the lower bunk.

I slammed back into meat. Gasped. Sat up.

Cold sweat. Shaking. Heart pounding.

Flaco stirred on the upper bunk. "You good, Hermano?"

"Yeah," I lied.

"Okay. Go back to sleep."

He rolled over. Snoring resumed.

I lay back down. Stared at the ceiling.

Rochelle's face. The fear in her eyes. The knife. Seven stabs. Blood everywhere.

Jamal. Unborn. Dead.

Danny's cold calculation. Hiding the weapon. Calling it "personal shit." Making it sound like drugs or cash. Something normal. Something every con hid before getting arrested.

Not a murder weapon.

Not evidence of killing his pregnant girlfriend and unborn son.

The lie about Jamal being eight months old. Alive. Healthy. Beautiful kid.

He'd murdered them before he got locked up. Hid the knife. Got arrested for some bullshit bar fight—assault, not murder. Clean record, one stupid night, just bad luck.

Except it wasn't bad luck.

It was cover.

Murder Rochelle. Hide the weapon. Get arrested for something unrelated. Go to prison with a clean story. No connection. No evidence.

And six months later, from inside, hire the prison witch to check if his hiding spot was still secure.

Twenty dollars.

I'd sold out for twenty fucking dollars.

Yeah.

I didn't sleep well that night.