Chapter 11 · The Man Who Spent Tomorrow

"He's in the back room." The bartender didn't look up from wiping the counter. "Milo. That's what he calls himself now."

I pushed past the bar, Iris two steps behind me. The contract burned against my ribs, hot enough to leave a mark. Twenty-three hours left. The mind-reading was still there, a low buzz of thoughts leaking through the walls—someone's betting on a fixed fight, someone else is planning to run—but I shoved it down.

"Cade." Iris grabbed my wrist. Her palm was cold. "You can't just walk in and—"

"And what? Ask nicely?" I pulled free. "You said I had a day. I'm not wasting it."

The back room reeked of cigarette smoke and desperation. A man sat at a card table, mid-forties, graying hair, hands shaking as he sorted a pile of crumpled bills. Marcus Lowe. He looked up when I walked in, and I felt his thoughts hit me like a slap.

*Not yet. Just one more month. I can fix this.*

"Marcus Lowe." I stopped three feet from the table. "You borrowed twelve years. Payment's due."

He stood so fast the chair tipped backward. "I paid. I've been paying every month—"

"Not to the Collections.