The Cracks Appear

The biting wind, a constant companion on these concrete plains, seemed to seep into Maya’s bones, chilling her more deeply than the mere absence of sunlight. Chris watched her, a knot tightening in his gut with each shiver. It had been weeks since they’d found the abandoned squat, a grimy sanctuary that offered little more than a temporary reprieve from the gnawing hunger and the ever-present threat of the streets. He’d managed to keep a steady flow of product moving, enough to keep them both fed, enough to keep the wolves at bay. But the weight of it, the constant vigilance, the moral rot that clung to him like cheap cologne, was starting to show.

Maya, once so vibrant, so full of a defiant hope that had mirrored his own, was fading. Her laughter, once a bright spark in the suffocating darkness, had become a rare, brittle thing. Her eyes, which used to dance with a fierce intelligence, now held a distant, unfocused glaze. He saw it in the way she’d started to linger a little too long when he was making a drop, in the way her fingers would twitch when she thought he wasn't looking. The product he was forced to peddle, the very thing that kept them alive, was slowly, insidiously, claiming her.

“You okay, May?” he asked, his voice rough from disuse and the cold. He sat beside her on the damp, stained mattress, the springs groaning in protest.