Elias slipped into the kitchen, his sneakers squeaking on the grease-slicked tiles.
Plates needed scrubbing, prep trays needed rinsing, towels needed wringing—but work wasn't why he was here.
He was hiding.
The industrial fan above the stove rattled, its bolts loose from years of neglect.
Lou stayed hunched over the grill, flipping patties with a robotic rhythm, as if a walking threat hadn't just strode into their boss's office. Eli edged toward the back corner by the walk-in cooler, close enough to hear but far enough to look busy.
The office door was flimsy—cheap wood, rusted screws.
Eli had lingered outside it before, catching Lou's grumbles about payroll or late deliveries. But today, the voice inside was different.
Low. Cold. Controlled.
"This ain't a negotiation."
Eli froze, his breath shallow.
The thug's words cut through the thin door, sharp and deliberate. No shouting. Just ice.
"Rico's got people starving. Your cut's late again."
Lou's response came softer, hurried, the words too muffled to parse.
Then the thug, unyielding.
"You think slinging hash browns to drunks and janitors keeps you off the radar? Nah. You're on Rico's map now. Pay, or burn."
Eli's breath hitched. He leaned against the counter, knuckles blanching. A buzz hummed in his ears—panic, maybe, or anger. He couldn't tell.
He glanced at Lou.
The cook hadn't flinched, still tending the grill like it was any other Thursday.
Maybe it was.
Maybe this was just Eldridge now.
The office door creaked open.
Heavy bootsteps echoed, slow and deliberate.
Eli ducked his head, snatching a dirty plate from the sink and scrubbing at crusted ketchup with a sponge.
The thug passed close—too close—his cologne a sharp mask over sweat and smoke. Eli's skin prickled, but he kept his eyes on the plate.
No one spoke.
The diner's door buzzed open, then slammed shut.
He was gone.
Eli stood rooted, fingers still gripping the plate. His heart thudded—not fast, but heavy, each beat a fist against a locked door in his chest.
He should've done something. Said something.
Anything.
But what? Call the cops?
Harlan Quinn would probably stroll in, palm outstretched for a slice of Rico's take. Confront the thug?
Eli wouldn't last five seconds in a fight—he knew it.
They'd bury him under the diner, and no one would notice for weeks.
He wasn't a fighter. He wasn't a hero. He was just a guy with trembling hands and a hoodie reeking of smoke.
Eli set the plate down and stepped out from the kitchen.
The diner was too quiet now, the air thick with unspoken dread.
Customers were either gone or hiding behind coffee cups, their eyes averted.
Lou didn't look at him. Just jerked his chin toward the booths. "Clean 'em," he muttered.
Eli didn't respond. Didn't move.
Something gnawed at his ribs—not just fear anymore. Something sharper, sourer. Regret, maybe. Or shame.
He drifted to the back counter instead, sliding open the drawer by the register. Beneath old menus and broken pens lay a comic, its spine creased, corners worn soft from years of handling.
He pulled it out.
The cover showed a masked vigilante on a rooftop, fists bloodied, city lights burning behind him.
Eli's reflection flickered in the plastic sleeve—pale, tired, nothing like the figure on the page.
Not strong. Not fast. Not brave.
But he held the comic anyway.