Selling his blood on the black market for rent money wasn't rock bottom... but it was close enough, Asher could smell it from here.
He limped down 13th street, his jacket stuck to his back, soaked in sweat and antiseptic. His right arm still throbbed where they had jabbed him three times before the vein finally gave up the goods.
Rare blood, they said. High demand... minimal payout. Still, it was extra income. Not exactly honest, but honesty was a luxury only the rich could afford.
Asher pulled out the payment he'd just received and sighed. It was even less than usual. When he'd complained, the nurse reminded him he'd given less than the usual four pints today.
Her expression said it all: he wasn't the first fool desperate enough to sell one pint short of passing out every few days.
The alley clinic didn't offer juice or cookies. A hollow stare, a wad of cash wrapped in foil, and a reminder to stay under the radar was the best one could hope for.
The worst? He had heard of donors going missing. Rumors of organ theft even.
It was the kind of place where you sign a contract and nobody asks your name or your backstory.
Today, he'd barely stayed conscious after two pints.
"Next time, eat something before coming in for a draw. I don't get paid enough to help hide your body." The nurse had muttered, her tone unkind.
That little blackout cost him. Half the grocery list would have to be scrapped if he wanted to make the next payment toward Emmy's hospital bills.
Not that the few bucks he scraped together every few days made a dent in the avalanche of debt still owed.
Construction worker by day, janitor by night. He worked security on weekends, and was a blood donor every other day.
Twenty four, broke, and one rent payment away from homelessness, he had a lot going on for him,
Everything...except success.
The city blurred around him, a mesh of moonlight and neon signs. Asher's legs moved on autopilot, muscle memory dragging him toward the rented shoebox he called home.
He'd made it halfway through a crosswalk when the world tilted sideways.
The sidewalk rushed up to meet him, uninvited. He had no time, or energy to brace himself.
One knee hit first. Then his elbow. Then his face. Hard enough, a sickening crack echoed in the silence of the night.
Concrete bit into his cheek as black spots swam behind his eyelids. Somewhere in the distance, a car honked. Someone might've shouted. Or maybe that was just the blood draining from his ears.
He tried to push himself up, but he couldn't.
His fingers curled against the pavement, numb and trembling.
So this was it. This was how he ended.
He had not hoped for a blaze of glory. But not even the cliché slow-fade to black?
Just dirt-stained jeans, a wallet with nine dollars, and a street corner that smelled like piss.
He gave a weak, half-cough, half-laugh that sounded pathetic even to his own ears.
Emmy. He thought of his little sister Emmy. Her tiny hands in his. Her IV stand. Her always-forced smile when he came to visit.
She had no idea he just sold plasma to a possibly non-human syndicate for her meds. Had no idea the woman she considered family was no longer in the picture.
"Tell her I said hi," Emmy would chirp, every time he visited. And every time, Asher would nod like a liar, pretending the woman who left him gasping in a hospital corridor still gave a damn.
She thought he was working security. She thought he was stable. She thought he had the love of his life.
She thought a lot of sweet lies he never corrected.
"Keep fighting, Ash."
He heard the words in her voice.
He had.
God, he had.
And now he was bleeding on the sidewalk like a dog, with nothing to show for it but a foil-wrapped wad of cash he had exchanged his life for,
Some street vagrant would snatch it off of his dead body without a care to get him help. Emmy... she would be put into the system.
Would there be a place for a ten year old with severe hemophilia?
His vision pulsed and his thoughts stuttered.
What did it all matter now? He had not been much successful in giving her the life she deserved, anyways.
For the first time in years… he felt warm.
Not safe. Not peaceful. Just… detached.
Like the part of him that cared had finally clocked out for good.
Asher Knox died on a Thursday.
Not with a scream or tears.
Just a tired exhale. A cracked skull. And a whole lot of loose ends.
---
Asher woke up with a throbbing headache and utter confusion.
The first thing he noticed was the exquisite smell. Rich leather, cigar smoke, and some kind of cologne that probably cost more than his entire life.
The second glaring fact was that he was not in a hospital.
Instead, he was sitting in the back of a limo. An actual, stretch, black-on-black luxury limo. The ceiling was lined with neon purple lights. It reminded him of some kind of ghost rave.
To the side, a mini bar sparkled with untouched crystal bottles. When he squinted, he noticed that somehow, there was fog swirling inside them.
He blinked.
Twice.
"I'm either dead," he muttered hoarsely, "or..."
He spared a glance around again.
"I'm dead." He decided, convinced.
It was then he finally paid attention to the man sitting across from him. Decked in an impeccable charcoal suit and a top hat with a rim so low, it blurred his features, he looked like Wall Street and the Grim Reaper had a love child.
A cigar was clenched between a row of golden teeth. And the only distinct features that didn't immediately scream of wealth were eyes that flickered between grey and grave.
His skin had that silvery waxiness to it. Like he'd died mid-sell and just kept closing deals from beyond.
The man smiled like a debt collector.
"Asher Knox," he said, voice deep like aged rum and old money. "Welcome to the Underworld Broker System. Billionaire Edition."
Asher stared.
"What is that? A cult? Or some kind of start up?"
"Both," the man replied with a shrug. "We cater to the unfinished business of the obscenely wealthy. Those who died too fast, too dirty, or too stubborn to let go. Your job? Get them closure. Fulfill their final wish. In return..." He flicked his cigar, ash vanishing midair. "You get what they left behind. Wealth. Power. Entire empires."
A black envelope slid across the bar. Asher didn't see where it came from or who had moved it.
He reached for it tentatively and opened it with numb fingers. Inside was a single lottery ticket. The kind they sold at gas stations.
"This one's already drawn," the man said. "Numbers match tonight's Powerball. That little slip of paper makes you a multimillionaire. If..." He raised a finger. "You accept the contract."
Asher frowned. "You're offering me... the jackpot?"
The man's grin widened. "Not offering. Promising. Consider it an incentive, but nothing's free. You'll be assigned your first client. A dead billionaire. They've got unfinished business. Complete their request, and the fortune is yours."
"And if I screw it up?"
"You go back to the moment you died," the man said casually, tapping ash into a void. "Concrete. Blood. No second chance."
Asher felt dizzy. "So basically, if I don't become a butler to dead rich people. I'll die horribly. Again."
"Executive liaison to posthumous clients," the man adjusted. "We have a brand to uphold."
Asher looked at the ticket again. It was a real lottery ticket. Printed ink, barcode, tiny tear at the corner. Tangible. Grounded.
But none of this could be possible...
His hands trembled.
He thought of Emmy. Of the cold hospital sheets. Of medical bills with too many zeroes and not enough time. Of selling his blood to keep her alive.
And now... a chance.
"Do I have to sell my soul or...?"
The man chuckled. "Nothing so crude. You already sold that long ago, Mr. Knox. This is just business."
Asher closed his eyes. He wasn't sure if this was a dream, salvation or just a new brand of damnation.
But he opened them, picked up the pen floating beside the envelope, and signed.
He chose to live.
Even if living meant working for the dead.