The landlord’s jaw dropped open, yet no words followed.That was often the reaction when men like him realized I was near enough to catch every sentence.Chicago was full of predators. Some dressed in custom suits and expensive watches. Some carried authority badges. Others made a living squeezing rent from people who had no strength left to fight and called it legitimate business.I had been called far worse than any of them.But standing there in the pouring rain, three inhalers gripped in one hand and Emily Carter’s shattered iPhone in the other, my reputation was the last thing on my mind.My attention was fixed on the little boy peeking out from behind his mother.He couldn’t have been older than six.Tiny. Pale. Damp brown hair clung to his forehead. His chest pumped too quickly, every breath sounding like it had to claw its way through shards of glass.Emily noticed the landlord staring beyond her.She turned.Her eyes met mine.For a brief moment, confusion crossed her face.Then fear.That reaction shouldn’t have affected me.Yet it did.Mr. Vale,” the landlord said, forcing a smile that shook at the corners. “I wasn’t aware you had any connection to this property.”“I don’t,” I replied.Relief flashed across his face.For less than a second.“Yet.”

Emily tightened her hold on her son. “Who are you?”I approached carefully and extended the pharmacy bag.“My name is Marcus Vale. You forgot something at the pawn shop.”Her eyes lowered to the bag.She made no move to take it.Smart.“I didn’t leave anything there,” she said.“Then think of this as being returned anyway.”The boy doubled over with a harsh cough, a sound so rough it bent his small frame forward. Emily instantly dropped beside him, panic lighting up her face.“Oliver, breathe. Sweetheart, look at me. In through your nose—”“He needs this,” I said.I opened the bag and removed one inhalerEmily stared at it as though I had placed a miracle in my hand.How did you—”“There isn’t time.”She hesitated only a moment longer before grabbing it. She shook it, attached it to the spacer from her coat pocket, and guided it toward her son.“Breathe in, Ollie. Good. Again.”The boy obeyed, his tiny fingers wrapped around hers.One breath.Then another.Then another.The awful whistling in his chest slowly eased.Emily closed her eyes briefly, and I watched relief nearly break her apart. Nearly. She kept herself together the way desperate people often do—not because they are strong, but because someone smaller depends on them.