Night came fast.
The streetlights flickered on one by one as Elliot walked, their pale glow stretching his shadow long across the pavement. His breath fogged in front of him, each exhale sharp, uneven. He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he couldn't stop.
Every step felt like it echoed.
The neighborhood thinned into older blocks—closed storefronts, flickering neon signs, boarded windows layered with peeling posters for events long past. The city smelled like oil and damp concrete. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed and then faded.
Elliot's shoulders sagged as the adrenaline drained out of him.
That's it, he thought.
That's how it ends.
He stopped beneath a broken streetlight and leaned forward, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. His chest hurt—not sharp, not yet, but tight. Like a fist closing slowly around his heart.
He reached into his jacket for a cigarette.
His fingers brushed something else.
Paper.
He froze.
Slowly, he pulled it out.
The envelope.
The one marked Treatment fund.
His mind went blank.
For a moment, the world narrowed to the thin rectangle of paper in his hands. He stared at it, not understanding. Then memory snapped into place with brutal clarity.
He'd taken it out earlier. In the bathroom. He'd meant to put it back.
He hadn't.
Elliot felt sick.
Inside the envelope were fewer bills than before. He'd taken some without thinking—stuffed them into his sock, spent them without even remembering when.
A laugh bubbled up in his throat. It came out wrong. High. Hysterical.
"I gave it back," he muttered. "I gave it back."
But he hadn't.
Not all of it.
His legs gave out and he sank down onto the curb, the cold seeping through his pants. His hands shook as he unfolded the envelope again, as if the numbers might change if he looked hard enough.
They didn't.
Images assaulted him unbidden: his aunt's pale face, the smear of blood on the tissue, the way she'd said I don't want him here without raising her voice.
He imagined her sitting in that living room later, weak and exhausted, counting the money again. Realizing it still wasn't enough.
Realizing it never had been.
Elliot pressed the envelope to his chest.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered.
The words meant nothing.
For the first time—not just tonight, but ever—he understood something with terrifying clarity.
He didn't steal because he needed to survive.
He stole because it was easier than asking.
Easier than failing openly.
Easier than sitting with the truth that he had taken more than he could ever give back.
His chest tightened further.
Breathing became work.
A passing car slowed, then sped up again. No one stopped. No one noticed the middle-aged man hunched on the curb, clutching an envelope like it might save him.
Elliot tried to stand.
Pain exploded through his chest—white-hot, blinding. His vision narrowed, edges darkening. He staggered forward, reaching out instinctively for something solid.
His knees hit the pavement.
The envelope slipped from his fingers and fluttered onto the road.
"No," he croaked, crawling toward it. "No—"
The streetlight above him flared suddenly, buzzing loudly. Its light washed over the road, over the envelope, over Elliot's outstretched hand.
Too bright.
His heart seized.
The pain peaked, then vanished entirely.
Elliot Myers collapsed face-first onto the pavement.
The envelope lay just out of reach.
Somewhere far away, someone screamed.
And then—
Light.
Not gentle. Not warm.
Blinding. Overwhelming. Like being dragged forward through a tunnel of white.
The last thing Elliot felt was regret—not for being caught, not for being thrown out—
But for the thing he had dropped and never picked up.
End of Chapter 4