Chapter 2
The sudden reunion between the wealthy businesswoman and the elderly street vendor drew a thick circle of curious pedestrians, blocking the flow of midday foot traffic. Flashbulbs from smartphones began to flicker, capturing the raw, weeping relief of the old man as he clutched the white envelope to his chest like a lifeline. The young vendor behind the hotdog cart craned his neck, completely abandoning his mustard and ketchup bottles to gawk at the sudden display of wealth playing out ten feet away. But the girl with the braided hair did not watch the embrace. Her gaze remained fixed on the sleek black luxury car idling curbside, its tinted rear window rolled down just an inch.
Through that narrow dark slit, a pair of cold, calculating eyes peered out, not at the weeping old man, but directly at the girl.
She felt a cold shiver crawl down her spine, instinctively tightening her grip on the stale hotdog wrapper until the paper tore. That face inside the car belonged to someone she was supposed to never see again. Someone who had allegedly left the country five years ago, leaving behind a trail of ruined lives and empty corporate vaults.
"Hey, kid! You gonna eat that or just stand there blocking my customers?" the young vendor barked, snapping her back to reality as he aggressively shoved past her to wipe down the counter. "Move it. I've got a lunch rush coming and I don't need your creepy staring contest ruining my vibe."
The girl didn't blink. She slowly backed away from the cart, her dirt-smudged face expressionless, hiding the turmoil raging underneath. She slipped into the dense crowd of tourists and office workers, keeping her head down. But she didn't run far. Darting behind a green newsstand, she peered through the iron bars at the luxury vehicle.
The businesswoman, whose sharp blue pantsuit radiated corporate authority, pulled away from the old man's embrace. She patted his shoulder with a practiced, almost clinical gentleness, whispering something into his ear that made the old man violently shake his head in protest. The businesswoman ignored him, turned on her high heels, and slid back into the leather-lined interior of the black car.
The door shut with a heavy, muffled thud, and the vehicle immediately surged forward into traffic, disappearing around the corner toward Wall Street.
The old vendor remained on the sidewalk, clutching the envelope of hundred-dollar bills so tightly the corners of the paper began to crumple. Passersby bumped into him, muttering apologies, but he was entirely paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of the cash in his hands. It was enough to pay off his medical debt, save his failing cart, and perhaps find the son who had abandoned him a decade ago.
The girl crept closer from behind the newsstand, her sneakers making no sound against the pavement. She approached the trembling old man, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper that only he could hear.
"That money isn't a repayment," she said coldly. "It's blood money, and she's buying your silence."
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The old man jerked his head up, his tear-filled eyes locking onto hers with sudden, terrified realization.
Before he could utter a single word, a heavy hand clamped down hard on the girl's small shoulder, spinning her around with bone-rattling force.
