The air tastes different since the world fell. A constant bitter tinge of ozone clings to the tongue, branding the constant reminder of the fragile fabric that remains between realms in the aftermath of corporate pillage and plunder. Boston is a remnant of the old world, a pocket of crumbling buildings and infrastructure coated in brine and exhaust. Slowly sinking into the sea with the rest of the east coast, the lower floors of the tenement houses are salt crusted, while the raised roadways and foot paths reek of dehydrated seaweed and unfortunate fish.

At the crumbling edge of the world, it's business as usual. People strive to make livelihoods within the new system, a bastardized combination of trade and capitalism that is neither successful or viable, but a placeholder between the surviving masses of the fall and the corporations that have partitioned the land like warlords in strongholds of glass and steel.

Boston sits at the fringes, a self-regulated barnacle of a city. The perfect place for me to hide, though in the nine months I've been here, I've failed to impart any sort of personality to this shoe box of an apartment. Nearly a year here, and my skin still itches every time I set foot outside the building. Luckily, this aviator jacket covers up my goosebumps, and lends an appropriate amount of freelance badassery.

Whistling, I jimmy the lock to my front door. There's nothing worth stealing aside from a pile of well-used clothing, but it's the principle of the matter. Bypassing the temperamental elevator for the stairwell, I nod to the tenants coming in from various night shifts and find myself accosted two floors down by a pair of pigtails. Rail thin arms latch around my waist. I look down into Tru's too serious face, returning the squeeze.

"You're momma home yet?" Tru nods, her dark face too thin and smudged in shadows. If her mother's home, she's likely passed out, leaving her daughter to wander the building in self-exile. Worry is a constant drain on Tru's young body, from sleepless nights and wandering days, but there is more at play than her mostly absent mother and only so much I can do for her. "Want some breakfast?"

Another small nod, while those big, brown eyes that see too much, too deep, watch every movement of my face. Sighing, I give her pigtails a tug. "Come, little bit, let's see if Gemma has any muffins left."

Tru stays silent, attached to my hip, her gaze taking in everything until we reach the main floor. The moldering carpet in the lobby still reeks from the last flood, the floor tiles left in cracked disrepair. I've seen abandoned buildings in better shape, but the rent is cheap, and the hot water still works.

Directly outside the pungent odors of the city are held at temporarily held at bay by Gemma's Brew & Breakfast cart, catering to those coming off night shifts and going out for day shifts. The cart boasts a perpetual line, but we've hit a sweet spot between waves. There are only a handful of customers in front of us, which means I might make it to the office before Kinami starts frothing at the mouth.

"You want your usual?" Another answering nod, her gaze now fixated on the stack of muffins on display, calculating the odds her favorite will still be available when we reach the front of the line. I bite my lip with a smile, knowing Gemma saves a ruby chocolate chip muffin for her every morning. Letting my mind wander to the day's list of tasks, I'm mentally prioritizing when there's a light tap on my shoulder.

"Excuse me miss, do you know how much they charge for a cup of Brew here?" The voice is a low baritone, even and polite. I glance back at the speaker and my brain stalls.

The sharp planes of his face are softened by the round curve of his chin and tip tilted nose, giving him a trickster's appearance. Brown eyes so pale they border on copper toned, framed by a thick fringe of dark lashes, peer down at me beneath a set of brows almost too thick for those elfin features. A faded scar slashes through his right brow and carves a tract over the bridge of his nose that ends in fractal pattern, like a Lichtenberg mark beneath his left eye. The imperfection shifts him from handsome to striking, a rumpled fallen angel in dust coated denim and worn leather.

I've been staring too long; mouth dry from my slack jawed ogling, and he knows it. Closing my mouth with an audible click, I desperately attempt to regain my bearings while this beautiful stranger watches me with patient amusement. "Usually a couple bucks, but Gemma will barter if you're short."

Gemma was a local. Everyone knew where to find her, and I thought I recognized most of the locals by now. The stranger dug into his pocket, producing a fistful of change. "Will this be enough? I'm just passing through and don't have much to trade."

"Tell you what, how about I cover you for a cup of Brew?" My offer teases a smile from him that evokes a flutter in my chest. There is a second of lingering guilt before I let myself enjoy the moment of harmless flirting with a stranger I'll never see again. I sense when Tru's attention shifts to him, her arms tightening around my waist, but my small companion says nothing.

Gemma is all smiles when we reach the front of the line, revealing the muffin she's already bagged and tagged for Tru while she readies my usual cup of Brew. "Morning ladies. One ruby chocolate chip orange muffin and a large Brew, yeah?"

"Could I get an extra Brew please, Gem?" I dug a worn envelope out of my pocket. "Cash or favors?" Gemma's gaze widened when she noticed the handsome stranger now hovering beside me. Gratified I wasn't the only one he left flustered; I tapped the envelope to regain her attention.

"Oh please, the last favor more than covers this, love." She winked at me, pushing two covered cups to the front edge of the cart. Gemma is careful not to say my name out loud, a favor I've paid for thrice over in the months I have been her customer. Tru snagged her bagged muffin while I tucked the envelope back into my pockets and grabbed both cups off the counter.

"Here you are," I handed off the second cup with a flourish, keeping the smile on my face when Tru ducked behind me. "Gemma is generous with the creamer, which makes it the most palatable Brew you'll find in a ten-block radius." Brew was the only affordable synthesized coffee substitution on the market for the mass majority and enough creamer mostly covered the straight taste of chemicals.

The stranger took the cup from my hand, features set in a feline smile as his fingers brushed mine. Warmth jolted through my system. The grin froze on my face. I didn't need Tru's fingers digging into my side to notice my internal warning bells. They grew muted when his gaze met mine, copper fire blazing like a sunburst around his irises.

"Thank you for your kindness," he said, his low voice caressing my senses.

"You're welcome," I said, hoping my voice sounded more breathless and less wigged out. That feline smiled deepened, making my toes curl and my skin crawl, before he bowed his head and walked away. Neither Tru nor I moved an inch until his departing figure turned the corner down the street, the muffin bag rustling when Tru finally relaxed her grip.

"Johanna," she whispered, her soft voice strained.

"Don't worry, little bit, I felt it too," I said, purposefully keeping my voice light. "Stay inside today, okay?" Tru murmured her acquiescence, taking a small weight off my shoulders. Part of me believed the beautiful stranger was just passing through, but even a passing predator was something to be wary about, and it took far too long for me to notice.

I bid Tru farewell with a gentle tug on her pigtails and set off at a brisk pace. Sipping my Brew with the occasional grimace, my senses remained on high alert the entire six blocks to the office, unable to dismiss the unease once the creaking revolving door spat me out into the brownstone lobby. Peeling cigarette-stained paint and exposed plumbing that left brown rust stains dripping on the old tile floor, the building was another crumbling musty survivor of Old Boston architecture. The levels were comprised of numerous small offices, my destination three floors up the narrow winding staircase.

The Smythe Agency was a freelance business I'd grown from a single filing cabinet and desk shortly after I arrived in Boston. Handling any odd job from debt collection, retrieving lost and stolen property, to playing bouncer for the night at one of Boston's multiple seedy night clubs, I kept a roof over my head and a clientele that didn't ask too many questions. Steady results meant I gained enough business to hire an assistant, which would be Kinami.

Nearing the open office door, the exposed pipework shivered over my head, responding to my rattled nerves. I paused out of sight, forcing myself to regain my composure before I faced my assistant. Kinami wasn't like Tru. She was worse.

"You look like shit."

I jumped, finally noticing her in the doorway. Scowling, I forced down another sip of Brew, desperate for the caffeine. "Don't you have files to sort?"

Kinami snorted, snatching the Bew out of my hands for a long swig. "Please, I finished that hours ago."

"That's mine," I growled at her.

She raised a sleek black brow, unimpressed by my show of temper. "What's got your panties in a twist?"

Feeling exposed in the hallway, I shooed her inside the office, shutting the door behind me before I described the encounter at Gemma's cart.

"Ooo, run in with a sexy stranger. No wonder you're all flustered." Kinami waggled her eyebrows at me, continuing to guzzle my Brew.

"You did hear the part where I said he reeked like a predator, right?"

She shrugged. "Dangerous sexy stranger then. You gonna see him again? Think you'll knock boots?" She drained the rest of my brew with a hum. "How big were his boots?"

"You are a terrible person," I muttered, refusing to dredge up the memory of his boots as I mindlessly sorted the pile of files on my desk. There was no chance of potential boot knocking in my future. Best not to entertain the fantasy.

Kinami draped herself over my desk, tossing the empty cup in the waste basket while she plucked a file off my desk marked urgent. "But I am an efficient terrible person, hence why you pay me."

"There had to be some reason," I said, snatching the file from her. She snickered, swinging her legs while she waited for me to review it.

"Isn't this the third time this month someone's broken into Mrs. Del Luna's apartment and stolen her jewelry?"

Kinami pursed her lips. "My money's on the son pawning them for drugs."

I rolled my eyes. Kinami had an uncanny knack when it came to guesses. "You already track down the shop?"

"Of course." She waved a scrap of paper, the address written in her tidy, block style handwriting. Eager to lose myself in the day's caseload, I tucked the paper in with the rest of the scraps I kept in my pocket envelope, a personal file cabinet of favors, notes, and cash that drove Kinami mad. I needed to push the memory of those sunburst eyes from my mind, another hidden monster lurking through the streets of Boston.

One of many in the new world.