The car ride back was quiet.
The engine purred softly under them as the black Jeep sliced through the city streets, humming beneath the orange wash of streetlights. Skyscrapers blurred past, and neither of them spoke for a while.
Liam leaned back in the seat, fingers loosely interlaced in his lap. He could still feel the tension from that tea house clinging to his skin like static. Alice, seated beside him, looked out the window, her reflection cut sharply against the glass.
Then she reached beneath her seat, tugged out a slim black briefcase, and clicked it open between them.
She broke the silence without turning. "Here's your payment."
Liam turned.
"You earned it," she said, nudging it toward him. "Open it."
He hesitated, then flipped it open. Neatly stacked rows of crisp cash stared back at him—clean, fresh, and definitely more than what they'd agreed on.
"This is too much," Liam said, lifting an eyebrow. "Like, way too much."
Alice finally turned to face him, resting her cheek against her knuckles. "Consider it a bonus. Or a down payment."
"For what?"
"For the next time I need you."
Liam laughed under his breath. "So this is gonna be a thing now?"
Alice gave a small shrug, like it didn't matter either way. "Maybe. Maybe not. But you did your job. You hit the mark so well I thought you were gonna give my dad a stroke."
"I thought he was going to hit me."
"You would've deserved it."
He grinned and snapped the briefcase shut, setting it on the seat between them.
A few more minutes passed in silence before Liam leaned forward and said, "Let me off here."
"We're still ten blocks from where you said you lived."
"Yeah, I know. Just… I'd rather walk."
Alice didn't argue.She had her driver slow down at the curb and brought the Jeep to a stop. "You sure?"
"Yeah." He reached for the door, then paused. "Thanks for the ride."
"Thanks for the show."
He stepped out and shut the door. She didn't wait. The Jeep pulled off into the night, tail lights vanishing between rows of parked cars.
Liam stood on the sidewalk for a second, breathing in the warm air, before heading off down the street.
Eventually, he turned a corner and slowed near an alley a few blocks from home. He opened the briefcase, pulled out a few bills, then tucked the case behind a trash bin with a half-busted lid. Not the safest spot, but safe enough for now. Nobody ever checked here.
He glanced at his phone.
7:45 p.m.
Curfew was eight.
He jogged the last few blocks, slipping into his street just as the sun vanished behind the rooftops. Faded two-story houses lined the road, porches slanted with age, paint peeling like dead skin.
His own house sat dead center—ugly brown siding, crooked mailbox, and a patch of grass that had been yellow for the last five years.
On the porch, his father sat in a rickety rocking chair, one hand holding a beer, the other scratching at his neck like something lived under the skin.
The moment Liam stepped onto the sidewalk, his dad's eyes narrowed.
"You know what time it is?" the old man barked, rocking forward. "You think this is some damn hotel?"
"I'm five minutes early," Liam muttered.
"Doesn't look early from here."
His mom came out next, arms crossed, slippers scuffing the floorboards. "You better not be coming in here empty-handed again."
Liam didn't flinch. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the money, and held it out.
"Rent. For the month."
His dad snatched it from his hand, flipping through it quickly before pocketing it.
His mom eyed him suspiciously. "Where'd you get this?"
"I was working."
"What kind of work?" she asked, chin jutting forward.
"I washed a car."
They exchanged a look. Clearly not convinced. But neither of them said anything.
His father grunted. "Well, don't come back late again. You live under our roof, you follow our rules."
Liam bit back the response forming in his throat, nodded, and walked past them into the house.
The same cracked linoleum floor. Same yellowish walls. Same smell—dust and mildew and fried leftovers that never quite went away.
He made his way to his room, shutting the door quietly behind him. His room was small—just a bed, a rickety desk, a dusty shelf full of worn books and old receipts. He dropped onto the mattress and sighed.
A cup of instant noodles sat on the shelf, waiting. He poured in hot water from the kettle, then went to take a quick shower.
By the time he came back out, towel slung over his neck, the room was quiet again.
He sat at his desk, stirred the noodles, and started eating.
It hit him again then—the heavy realization. He was back.
Back in this house. Back in this body. Back in a life he'd fought so damn hard to escape.
It had taken years the first time. He'd clawed his way out of this place piece by piece, surviving off scraps and part-time jobs until finally, finally, he made something of himself.
And now?
Now he was seventeen again. Broke. Miserable. And back under the thumb of the same people who never saw his worth.
He sighed, resting his head against his hand.
"All because of that wrinkly-ass old lady…"
"Who are you calling wrinkly, kid?"
Liam's eyes flew open. He nearly choked on his noodles.
Standing in the corner of the room, right next to his bookshelf, was the old woman.
Same outfit. Same cane. Same weirdly bright eyes that sparkled like they knew something you didn't.
She grinned at him.
"You're lucky I don't take offense easily," she said, tapping the cane lightly on the floor. "But come on—wrinkly? I prefer 'seasoned.'"
Liam stood so fast his chair scraped back and nearly toppled.
"What the hell?! How did you get in here?"
"Front door. Your parents were too busy arguing about whether or not to order pizza to notice me."
"You—" He pointed, speechless. "You're the one who pushed me!"
She raised her eyebrows. "Pushed is a strong word. I prefer to think of it as… rerouted."
"Why?!"
"I was finally doing well!"
"Sure," she said, stepping closer, "but you were surviving. Not living."
"That's not your decision to make."
She walked over to his desk, looked down at his noodles, and made a face. "Still eating this garbage, huh?
Liam stood there for a long moment, heart thudding, the faint taste of soy broth still on his tongue.
Eventually, he sat back down.
He stared at the steaming noodles, then glanced over at the old lady
"…The hell is going on?"