I slipped into the clothes that were now neatly folded on my bedside table, feeling a bit more grounded in my familiar outfit. The soft fabric clung to me, clean and comfortable—a far cry from the luxurious lingerie and heavy expectations that weighed on me last night. For a moment, it was a relief, like stepping back into my old skin, a version of me that felt distant, but familiar. It was like grabbing onto a lifeline, something that reminded me of who I was before I got tangled in all this.
But as I caught my reflection in the mirror, that sense of comfort started to dissolve. The girl looking back at me— she didn't quite match the one I felt inside. My clothes, once an armor that made me feel tough, now seemed like a costume, a facade that didn't fit as well as it used to. I was straddling two worlds—the street-smart girl who knew how to navigate rough corners, and this newer version of me, tangled in Oliver's world of luxury, seduction, and power plays. I wasn't sure who I was anymore. I was caught in between.
A strange, uncomfortable tension built inside me. The girl who hustled on the streets, dodging debts and scraping by, she didn't belong here in the Vault. But at the same time, the girl I was becoming—the one who wears silk gowns, submits to clients, and plays along in this dark game—she felt like a stranger, too.
Marge led me back to the office where I first met Oliver. I was still adjusting from the night's experiences, and the fresh morning was a welcome change. As Marge lit a cigarette, she knocked on the door and announced, "Pretty face is here for you."
"Bring her in," Oliver's voice commanded through the door.
She opened it, revealing Oliver sitting behind his desk with his feet propped up. He looked impeccably well- dressed and refreshingly composed. The light caught the silver stripe in his hair, accentuating his commanding presence. His cologne drifted across the room, intoxicating and familiar.
He grinned as he looked at me. "Someone has come to pay you a visit," he said with a hint of mischief.
I was so captivated by Oliver that I almost didn't notice Stag sitting across the desk from him. My heart sank as I realized the gravity of the situation—my debt with Stag followed me into the Vault.
Stag stood up; his movements deliberate. He walked towards me, pulling out a knife and pressing it against my neck. His voice was rough and unyielding. "Midnights come and gone, sweetheart. Time to settle. Shouldn't have made me track you down. No more extensions."
As Stag's words sank in, a wave of despair crashed over me. The staggering debts and relentless interest from my parents' mistakes have never been far from my mind. They haunted me day and night. Every time I thought I was making progress, my own actions seemed to compound the problem.
Despite my street smarts and experience, the burden of paying off other people's debts while collecting my own felt overwhelming. I tried to stay ahead, to navigate this treacherous landscape with the skills I'd honed. But the reality is, it was suffocating, and the weight of it all threatened to crush me.
I fought hard to survive, to carve out a place for myself, but it often felt like I was stuck in a never-ending cycle of desperation. Every step forward seemed to be met with a step back, and the promise of relief always seemed just out of reach. It was a heavy shadow that loomed over my every move.
I reached into my jacket pocket with a smirk, pulling out the weed and pills I got from Fred. Trying to sound cocky I say, "I've got a little something here. Maybe this will buy me some more time." I pushed the stash towards him, my voice steady despite the fear I was trying to hide. Stag's laughter was cold and derisive. "That's cute, Lux. But it doesn't even scratch the surface of what you owe. Probably bought this with the money you owe me anyway. And don't forget, I'm adding interest for having to track you down. Your little offering is a joke.
Oliver stood up, a grin spreading across his face as he pushed Stag away from me. "Hold on a minute, Stag," he laughed. "Remember, Lux is working off a debt with me right now." He turned to Stag, his tone turning smooth and business-like. "I can cover Lux's debt. Let's discuss repayment terms. She's my responsibility at the moment."
Stag paused, his gaze shifting between Oliver and me. His smirk faltered for the briefest moment, replaced by something harder to read—something almost reluctant. "You really willing to cover the debt of a slimy street rat like her?" he sneered, the words sharp, but his hesitation gave them an odd weight.
I bristled at the insult. "Shit wad," I shot back, unable to hold my tongue.
But beneath my defiance, there was a hint of something more complicated. Stag had always been more than just a looming figure I owed. In a way, he was like a difficult uncle—abrasive, impossible to please, and yet, someone I couldn't entirely hate. My debt to him had never been just about money. It was about the kind of street loyalty that ran deeper than blood, a silent understanding of the unspoken rules that bound us both.
Oliver chuckled, clearly amused by the exchange. He looked at Stag with an almost mocking tone. "Is this really how you want to spend your time, dealing with her over a debt I can easily repay? Think about it."
Stag eyed me for a moment, his gaze cold and calculating, then turned back to Oliver. "Alright," he said slowly, "I'm willing to work out a deal, but it better be a damn good one. Enough to cover what this little brat owes and what her worthless parents left behind. Plus the money I'll need to replace her."
Oliver leaned back, still grinning, confidence oozing from him. "Oh, you'll leave satisfied, Stag. I guarantee it."
For some reason, the ease with which Stag agreed stung more than I expected. He seemed so quick to hand me over, as if I was just another debt to trade. I didn't know why it bothered me, but it did, working its way into the mess of feelings I already had for him, Oliver, and this entire damn situation. Maybe it was pride, or maybe it was something deeper, but the weight of it pressed harder than I wanted to admit.
Stag turned his glare back to me, his lips curling in a sneer. "And you," he growled, pointing the knife in my direction, "you better keep that pretty little face away from my streets. I catch you on the street making any deals, you won't get a second chance."
He tucked his knife away and shot me one last menacing look. "Stay out of my sight."
I caught something in his eye—a slight gleam of something that didn't belong there. It wasn't the usual triumphant gleam he got when he struck the perfect deal. This was different, a shadow of reservation or maybe even sadness, quickly buried beneath his mask of hostility. It was gone in a heartbeat, but it lingered in my mind, unsettling me in a way I couldn't quite explain.
Oliver reached into his desk drawer and pulled out an envelope, thick with what looked like cash. He tossed it to Stag, who caught it easily, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he felt the weight of it. "That should cover more than enough," Oliver said with a smirk.
But then Oliver reached into his pocket and pulled out something else—a sleek, black ticket. He slid it across the desk toward Stag. "And this," he adds smoothly, "is for you to use as you please. Consider it a gesture of goodwill. You know what kind of doors that opens."
Stag eyes the black ticket, his expression shifting from irritation to intrigue. He picked it up and examined it, his thumb running over the embossed surface. "You're full of surprises, Oliver," he muttered, pocketing both the envelope and the ticket.
Stag gave me one last, hard look before turning on his heel and striding out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him, and the tension in the air seemed to shift. Oliver's gaze stayed on me, an amused smile playing on his lips. He leaned back in his chair.
He gestured to the chair across from him with a casual flick of his hand. "Take a seat," he said, his voice smooth and commanding. "We've got a lot to discuss."
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied me. "Seems like you've made quite a name for yourself on the streets," he said, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Stag's got a lot of connections in the Vault, and finding you was almost too easy for him."
He paused, tapping his fingers on the desk, considering his next words. "You know, you might be more useful to me than just another pretty face working the Isles," he continued.
He leaned back again, his eyes assessing. "The real question is whether I can trust you. Your dealings with people like Stag make me think twice. And trust isn't something I give freely." He waited, letting his words sink in.
I crossed my arms and shot back, "With my debt to Stag cleared, I can work off my debt here and get back on the streets and get ahead. What makes you think I need you or this place?"
The words left my mouth with more confidence than I felt. In the back of my mind, I knew the truth: clearing my debt with Stag meant life on the streets might not be quite as hard as it once was—if he actually honored his word. But that's a big "if." Stag wasn't exactly known for playing fair, and if he caught me stepping anywhere near his territory again, I'd be right back where I started—or worse.
I let the thought sink in, feeling the weight of it. Even with the debt wiped clean, the streets were changing. I've changed. The game was no different; it was still about survival, power, and control. But the Vault… this place was something else. The streets didn't offer the same opportunities, at least not for me. I couldn't help but wonder if I was starting to lose my edge out there, or maybe just outgrow it.
The truth is the streets didn't feel like an option anymore. Not with Stag watching, and not with everything I'd seen in the Vault. Out there, I'd always be scrambling, just one mistake away from slipping back into the same endless cycle. Here, though… as twisted as this place is, there was some sense of control. I could at least see the game pieces. There was a way forward.
Still, saying it out loud felt like admitting defeat—like admitting this place had a hold on me. But maybe staying in the Vault was the only way I had a real shot at getting ahead, at not just surviving but figuring out who I was and what came next.
I glanced at Oliver, trying to keep my expression hard, but part of me wondered if he already knew what I was starting to realize: the streets aren't an option anymore.
It was as if Oliver had anticipated every ripple, every move Stag would make to claim control of the streets, effectively cutting off any path for me to return. The realization sent a jolt through me—he'd orchestrated this, ensuring that my only viable option was to stay in the Vault, close to him. Like he'd been playing a game all along, making sure I had nowhere else to go.
The thought both frustrated and intrigued me. If this was his plan, it worked. My escape route was gone, and the only place left for me was here, under his watchful eye.
Oliver's smile faded slightly as he stood, planting his hands firmly on his desk and leaning toward me. His eyes locked onto mine, piercing and intense. "You could," he said slowly, his voice low and dangerous, "but we both know you want more than just scraping by on the streets, don't you?"
He pushed off from the desk and moved around it, positioning himself right in front of me, leaning casually against the edge. I felt his eyes on me. My cheeks flushed with a mix of frustration and desire, knowing he was playing a game that I was caught in.
I kept my eyes on him, arms still crossed, as I asked, "How do I know when my debt is paid here?"
Oliver leaned back a bit, his smirk returning. "Marge keeps track of all debts, feel free to talk with her about your account at any time," he replied smoothly. "When what you owe is paid in full, you're free to walk out of here. Or, if you find the work… profitable, you could stay on and earn a cut from the clients you bring in."
He paused for a moment, considering his next words carefully. "But maybe," he continued, a hint of intrigue in his voice, "if you get a taste for what I do, there could be other opportunities. Dealings between me and some folks on the streets. I'm up to my neck in the Vault most days, and it's hard to keep my finger on the pulse of what's happening out there."
I hesitated, the memory of Stag's threat lingering in the back of my mind. "What about Stag?" I asked, my tone cautious. "He made it clear that if I went back to the streets, I'd be walking straight into his crosshairs."
Oliver's expression didn't falter, but his gaze sharpened slightly, a flicker of protectiveness beneath his calm exterior. "While you're working for me, Stag won't do much harm," he said firmly. "He values our arrangement too much to risk crossing me. You're under my protection now, Lux, and Stag knows better than to mess with what's mine."
The way he said it—mine—sent a shiver down my spine. It was both a reassurance and a warning, a reminder that my safety was tied to him now, that leaving wasn't an option unless he willed it. The mix of security and subtle control in his tone left me both grateful and wary, unsure of where the line between ally and captor truly lay.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly, a more serious note slipping into his voice. "Don't mistake what I did with Stag for a business-only transaction. That was also favor, Lux. A favor I didn't have to extend."
He studied me, a hint of hesitation crossing his features. "There's something about you… something that could be useful."
He didn't say it, but I could feel it in the air—he was drawn to me, and not just because of business. There was more at play here, and it had us both on edge.
I couldn't help but let my mind wander for a moment, fixating on the hold Oliver had over me. Maybe it was his confidence, the way he commanded a room without ever raising his voice. Or the way he looked—sharp, refined, always one step ahead. It was a far cry from the grimy street hustlers I was used to dealing with.
He had this dangerous charm; a mix of power and control that made me crave more than just a simple escape from debt. It was intoxicating—how he carried himself, the silver streak in his hair catching the light, the smell of his cologne that lingered even when he'd left the room.
I knew he was playing his own game, but I couldn't deny that part of me was hooked. There was a desire deep down to see just how far he'd let me go… and how much closer I could get to him in the process.
I was caught staring, my eyes locked on the bulge in his pants. Before I could look away, Oliver reached down, grabbing himself with a slow, deliberate motion. It's a subtle tease, a silent acknowledgment that he noticed where my gaze had settled. His lips eased into that sly, infuriatingly sexy grin, and he leaned in just a bit closer.
"Good girls get what they want," he said, his voice low and teasing. "When they're patient… and play nicely."
His words sent a shiver through me, igniting a mix of frustration and desire. He knew exactly how to push my buttons, dangling just enough to keep me hooked. And damn it, it was working.
I nodded, keeping my expression steady even though his offer piqued my interest. "I'll give it some thought," I replied, my voice steady with just a hint of defiance.
Oliver leaned back slightly, giving me that cool, confident smile that always seemed to hint at something deeper. "Take your time," he said, his voice smooth but laced with unspoken expectation. "Marge will show you around some more—let you have some free time exploring the Vault."
He paused, his gaze sharpening, as if gauging my reaction. "But don't mistake this for leisure," he continued, his tone carrying a subtle edge. "I want to see how you handle things down here. How you navigate the Vault, its people, and everything that comes with it."
He stood up, moving toward me with measured steps, his presence overwhelming. "This place is a test for everyone who steps through its doors. Some thrive, some break. I want to see which one you'll be."
I met his gaze, feeling the weight of his words, knowing this isn't just about exploring. He was watching me closely, studying how I move through this world he's created. It was a challenge—to see if I'll fold under the pressure or rise to meet it.
He smirked, the teasing edge returning. "Let's see if you're as good at navigating the Vault as you were dodging Stag. Show me you're worth the investment."
He turned to Marge, who had been lingering by the door, cigarette smoke curling around her head. "Make sure she gets a good look at what's to offer down here," he instructed her. His gaze turned back to me, "But just remember, that purple glow on your hand? It'll keep you from getting past security. So don't bother trying to find an exit. It's a waste of effort."
His words were a firm reminder of where I stand—trapped in this maze of power and pleasure with no easy way out. But it also gave me an opening to see more of what I might be dealing with. And maybe figure out a way to turn the situation to my advantage.
Just before Marge left the office, Oliver called out to her. "Oh, Marge, one more thing," he said with a sharp edge to his voice. "Make sure to get a violet chain bracelet for Lux's wrist. We need everyone to know who she belongs to while she's here."
Marge nodded, a small smirk on her lips, and turned to head out. She spun around, her cigarette dangling from her lips, and gestured for me to follow. "Come on, princess," she mattered, impatience dripping from her words. "I ain't got all day."
She took a long drag, her eyes narrowing as she sized me up. I pushed myself up from the chair, feeling the weight of everything that just happened settle in my chest. I fell in step behind Marge.
I felt Oliver's hand gently graze my back, sending a shiver down my spine. His touch was warm, firm—almost possessive. Goosebumps moved across the back of my neck, and I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder. Oliver's eyes met mine, a small, knowing smile played on his lips. For a moment, I forgot where I was, caught in the heat of his gaze.
But Marge cleared her throat, snapping me back to reality. "Come on," she said again, more impatiently this time. I tore my eyes away from Oliver and followed her out, the sensation of his touch lingered long after his hand left my back.
Marge led me through a maze of corridors. The Vault felt like a place where time stood still—day and night blur into one, and the constant hum of activity made it hard to tell one moment from the next. The ambiance is both intoxicating and disorienting.
We stopped in front of a door marked with an intricate unrecognizable symbol, like some sort of crest. Marge knocked sharply before pushing the door open. Inside was a workshop cluttered with various tools and strange contraptions. The air was thick with the sharp scent of chemicals and something medicinal.
In the center of the chaos stood a thin man with disheveled hair and wide, darting eyes, and thick glasses. He was fiddling with gadgets, his movements jittery and erratic.
"Spin! We need a violet chain soldered on ASAP," Marge said, handing him a green ticket.
Spin's eyes widened, and he grabbed the ticket with an excited squeal. "Oh, oh, oh! A green ticket! You know what that means, right?!" He talked so fast it was almost a blur. "Let me just—just—oh, here it is! The perfect chain for you!"
I watched as Spin fumbled with his tools; his hands moved with an impossible speed. His energy was electrifying, a buzz that seemed to drive him. Marge stood by, her demeanor cool and detached.
Spin managed to steady himself and grabbed the violet chain. "This'll be a quick one! Real quick! Just hold still, okay? We don't want any mistakes. Wouldn't want to mess up something so…important!" His words tumbled out in a rapid-fire stream.
I tried to focus, but Spin's erratic behavior made it hard to concentrate. As he worked, he chattered incessantly about his latest projects and his favorite speed drug, barely pausing for breath.
When he finally finished, he stepped back with a grin, admiring his handiwork. "There you go! All set! Oliver's girl!" His voice trailed off into a high-pitched giggle.
I reflected on the people I'd met here: Marge, with her cool detachment and deep-seated loyalty; Spin, with his manic energy and erratic behavior; Raya, with her peppy voice and playful demeanor. The absence of traditional rules seemed to magnify their most authentic selves—or maybe it was the drugs doing the trick. Either way, the lack of boundaries created a space where people's true nature was on full display, for better or worse.
Marge nodded approvingly and guided me out of the workshop. As we left, I felt the weight of the chain on my wrist, a tangible reminder of my new status within the Vault.
I took the chance to dig deeper into the Black Vault's history. My curiosity was piqued, and I needed to understand more about the place and the man who run it.
"So, Marge," I started, my voice filled with genuine interest, "how long has the Vault been around?"
Marge gave me a sideways glance, her expression turned reflective. "The Vault's been in operation for many many years. Longer than anyone really knows the origins of. It was founded by a notorious figure in the underground world—someone whose influence stretched far beyond these walls. But where it is now begins with Oliver's father. He was a major player, a real force in the Vault's early days."
I listened intently, my mind raced with images of the Vault's past. "Oliver's dad was a big name, huh?"
Marge nodded; her face softened with a hint of nostalgia. "Absolutely. He was a legend in his own right. When Oliver was just a teenager, his father began grooming him to take over. It was a tough training—hard lessons in business, connections, and, well, the darker aspects of this world."
She paused, as if weighing her words. "Oliver learned fast. He soaked up everything his father taught him and proved himself. When his father passed away about 20 years ago, Oliver stepped up and took control. He turned the Vault into the powerhouse it is now—modernized operations, expanded influence, made it a key player in the city's underground."
I absorbed this information of Oliver's journey. It's one thing to run a business but quite another to inherit and revolutionize a legacy. It was clear that Oliver didn't just inherit power; he forged his path, shaping the Vault into something formidable.
"The Vault's history," Marge continued, "is intertwined with the city's streets. It's not just a place; it's a symbol of power and control. And Oliver's role in all this? He's more than just a figurehead. He's the one who's made sure the Vault stays at the top."
Marge glanced at me, a faint smirk on her lips. "None of this is really a secret, you know. Anyone who spends enough time in the Vault picks up on these things through rumors and word of mouth. It's just the way things work down here—people talk, stories spread, and sooner or later, you get the full picture."
She paused, giving me a sidelong glance. "But I'll give you credit—you ask a lot of questions. More than most. I've noticed that about you." Her smirk faded, replaced by a more thoughtful look. "You're curious, always digging for more information. That's good. It'll help you, as long as you know when to stop asking."
Another question had been nagging at me, so I finally asked Marge, "Why doesn't Oliver seem to have a girlfriend or a wife? I haven't seen anyone close to him."
Marge glanced at me, a wry smile on her lips. "Ah, that's a good question," she said, her tone carrying a hint of amusement. "Down here, having personal relationships can be a liability. It opens too many opportunities for people to manipulate or control you."
She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. "Oliver likes to be in control, and having someone close would give others leverage over him. So, he's kept his personal life tightly guarded. There's only one exception," she added with a chuckle.
"Who's that?" I asked, intrigued.
Marge laughed softly, her eyes twinkling with self-importance. "Me. I've been here so long that I practically run background of this place. Oliver trusts me, and I've been around long enough that I know the ins and outs of the Vault better than anyone. Sometimes, I even forget what the sun looks like."
Her comment was tinged with humor, but there was a certain pride in her voice. It was clear that her position in the Vault was one she took seriously, even if it meant sacrificing the outside world.
I absorbed this new piece of information, understanding that Oliver's need for control extends beyond his business dealings and into his personal life.
She glanced at me, her eyes filled with concern. "Listen," she began, her tone more solemn than before. "Don't go getting your heart set on winning Oliver over. I see the way he looks at you."
She paused, as if weighing her next words carefully. "Oliver's not the type to let personal feelings cloud his judgment, but sometimes, even he can make mistakes. I'm worried that whatever's happening between you two might cause him to slip up and jeopardize everything he's worked for."
Marge's warning hung in the air. Her concern was genuine, and I could sense the depth of her loyalty to Oliver.
But then, her demeanor softened slightly. She looked at me with a hint of admiration and something else I couldn't quite place. "That being said," she continued, her voice taking on a more personal tone, "there's something about you. I can't deny it. I find myself drawn to you, too. You've got this vibe—young, full of spit and vinegar. It's refreshing."
Her eyes met mine with an unexpected warmth. "I guess I like you. You've got a lot of potential, but navigating this world is tricky. Make sure you know what you're getting into."
As we walked through the twisting corridors, Marge's tone grew more direct. "Look," she said, her voice firm. "Just because you've got street smarts doesn't mean you've got Vault smarts. Otherwise, you wouldn't have ended up in Oliver's debt in the first place. And getting tangled up with Stag? That was reckless."
Her words stung, but I knew they came from a place of truth. I took a deep breath, trying to find the right way to explain. "I didn't have much of a choice," I started, my voice steady despite the weight of my past. "When my parents died, I inherited their debt with Stag. I was only eleven. I've been doing shit deals with him since then."
I paused, feeling the old wounds reopen. "No matter how hard I worked, I never seemed to catch up."
Marge listened quietly, her expression softened with a mixture of empathy and understanding. "It's a tough world out there," she said finally. "And sometimes, it's hard to see the bigger picture when you're caught up in the struggle. But you're here now. And if you want to make a change, you've got to learn to play the game differently. Don't let the past keep you from figuring out how to navigate this place."
Her words offered a strange comfort, and I nodded, feeling a renewed sense of determination. The Vault might be a harsh reality, but it's also a chance for a new start.
"How long do people usually end up working for Oliver in the Isles?"
Marge considered the question for a moment before responding. "It really depends on the person and their debt," she explained. "Some people come in here with debts that are so massive it takes years to pay off. Others might be out in a matter of months, weeks, or days, if they're making good money and paying off their dues quickly."
She paused, then added, "But there's also a whole bunch who end up sticking around longer than they planned. They get used to the work, the comfort, and the lifestyle. If they're turning a profit and contributing, Oliver tends to let them stay."
Marge glanced at me with a reassuring look. "Listen, I know it might seem chaotic and dangerous down here. But there's a strange kind of comfort in the Vault. It's an alternative to the world above, where things can be just as tough, if not tougher."
She continued, "As long as you know the right people and play your cards right, you can carve out a decent life for yourself here. It's not all bad, and it can even be better than what's waiting outside these walls if you're smart about it."
Marge gave me a serious look. "Think of this as a new start, Lux. Forget about your past. As long as you work for Oliver, you'll be taken care of."
She paused, making sure I understood the gravity of her words. "It's a tough world, but it's a world. You'll see other sex workers around here who don't work for Oliver. They're usually flying solo or stuck with some shitty pimp. They end up working the corridors or blowing people in piss puddles in the alleyways."
Marge's tone turned serious as she continued. "You got it good compared to others in this place. You need to understand something about the Class C debtors. They're the shit stains of the Isles. They're not treated as well because they either don't bring in much profit or they're just drug addicts trying to pay off debts that they'll inevitably fall back into. Oliver uses them as a display—cheap entertainment that draws clients in, who then get upsold to the Class B and A debtors."
She paused to let the weight of her words sink in. "He doesn't waste resources on Class C; they're here to serve a purpose and nothing more."
Marge lit another cigarette, the smoke curling around her as she spoke. "Alright, enough small talk, take some time to explore the Vault, but be back in your room within the hour. I've got clients lined up for you, and believe me, Oliver's already been more lenient with you than he usually is. Don't push your luck."
She took a long drag from her cigarette, looking at me with a mixture of sternness and a hint of understanding. I nodded, knowing it's best to make the most of my time before getting back to work.