Oscar didn’t meet people in back alleys or dark rooms.

  Oscar met people in laundromats.

  Clean. Public. Practical.

  The kind of place where nobody looks twice at strangers because everyone’s got their own dirty laundry to worry about.

  Milo brought me three days later.

  “Don’t volunteer information,” Milo said on the walk over. “Don’t try to impress him. Answer his questions. That’s it.”

  “What’s he like?”

  Milo looked at me like I’d asked what color the sky was.

  “Careful.”

  That was all he said.

  Oscar was sitting at a small table in the back when we arrived, newspaper open, coffee steaming beside him. He looked like every other working man in the city—clean shirt, rolled sleeves, no jewelry, nothing flashy.

  But the room moved around him.

  People gave him space without realizing they were doing it.

  Milo gestured for me to sit. Oscar didn’t look up from his paper.

  “This him?” Oscar asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Milo says you can make things disappear.”

  “Not disappear,” I corrected. “I make them stop mattering.”

  Oscar’s eyes lifted from the paper. Sharp. Measuring.

  “Show me.”

  I reached into my bag and pulled out a small glass bottle. Inside was a faint amber liquid—my latest batch.

  “I need something to treat.”

  Oscar gestured to a folded towel on the table. “Use that.”

  I opened the bottle, poured a thin line across the towel, and spread it evenly with my hand. The brew soaked in fast, leaving no visible residue.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  “Done,” I said.

  Oscar looked at the towel. Looked at me.

  “That’s it?”

  “Wait thirty seconds.”

  We sat in silence.

  Then Oscar looked back at the table.

  His eyes scanned once. Twice.

  His hand reached out, stopped, then moved again like it couldn’t decide where to go.

  “Where is it?”

  “On the table.”

  His hand touched it. His fingers gripped it. He lifted it, stared at it, then at me.

  “How long does it last?”

  “Six to twelve hours, depending on the batch.”

  Oscar set the towel down, folded his hands, and leaned forward slightly.

  “Can you do it to a crate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you do it by tomorrow night?”

  I hesitated. Not because I couldn’t.

  Because I understood what he was asking.

  This wasn’t a test anymore.

  This was a job.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Oscar nodded once. “Milo will bring you the materials. You’ll work here, in the back. If it works, I’ll pay your rent for the next three months.”

  He stood, buttoned his coat, and looked at me one last time.

  “If it doesn’t work,” he said calmly, “we’ll discuss what happens next.”

  Then he left.

  Milo exhaled beside me.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “You just got noticed.”

  I sat there staring at the towel on the table, my heart pounding, my hands shaking.

  Not from fear.

  From excitement.

  Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t just surviving.

  I was useful.

  And I wanted more.