[Revised]

"Pawn shop, my ass," Zara grumbled to herself as she grabbed the styrofoam containers from the kitchen's pass-through window and stacked them inside a plastic bag, beside the cash register. "That will be twenty dollars, sir."

Sammy Boy was a quintessential American diner in lower Manhattan. The place had a 90's style décor, and its ownership was passed down from generation to generation and run by the owner's family. Wobbly tables, stained couches, peeling paint—the place was practically falling apart, but the food was cheap, served in large servings, and greasy, hence, it was very popular. Because the Diner was on the first floor, the owners—a couple in their fifties—lived on the second floor, so it was very easy to manage.

They would have their children wait, but they'd moved out, so they hired students like Zara who were willing to work long hours for a measly wage. Zara absolutely despised them because they treated their employees like garbage, however, since the tips sometimes could be very generous, the poorly-paid teenagers stuck around and sucked it up. It hadn't been easy to find employment, as Zara had no prior work experience, but when she got hired, she was almost over the moon, had it not been for the owner's additional comment. She may have even excused his ensuing brutish behaviour if he didn't add—after an uncomfortably long handshake and a nauseating smirk—"We need an exotic girl like you. Customers love exotic girls."

Not punching him in the face for the lewd comment had taken a serious divine intervention.

Now she worked the cash register on a slow Tuesday night, counting down the hours before she could return home; even part-time was exhausting. Her lower back still hurt from practically being sat on by Saffron, and their two-hour long video game session had almost gotten her late for her shift.

She felt a tap on her shoulder, but as she briefly turned her head to see who it was, she was met with air.

"Zarina, can you do me a favour?" The nasal voice belonged to none other than Jack, her annoying coworker. She detested the nickname almost as much as him; he'd given it to her because of the colour of her eyes, which he claimed were as icy as her heart. He wasn't wrong about the latter, but it was patronising. Now it also reminded her of Igor, who she still had to go talk to.

"What do you want?" Zara asked through gritted teeth, gripping the cash register with both hands to calm her nerves. Ever since he tried groping her ass on her second day of work, she couldn't look at him with anything other than disdain. She already had to deal with one invasive creep—her boss, who fortunately wasn't around on Tuesday nights—and now with a younger copy.

"My knee's acting up. Could we trade places?" With a smile, he revealed his braces-lined teeth and the dimple in his cheek. Along with his slick blonde hair, horrible acne and glasses, he looked like the kind of kid bullies beat up at school. She wasn't surprised if that was the case.

Zara wrinkled her nose and gave him a once-over; his smile faltered but didn't disappear. More disgusting than usual, she thought to herself as the sweaty collar of his white polo shirt remained imprinted in her mind. Her eyes took in the new customers walking in and taking the table furthest away from the entrance and almost out of sight. The shorter one reminded her a little of Mr. Smee from Peter Pan but in a suit and tie, whereas the taller guy was dressed like he was about to go for a jog in the park.

"Please, Zara, it's swollen and it hurts to walk."

Zara tore her gaze away from the unusual pair and instead looked at Jack the same way you look at roaming fly. "That's not my problem—table 6 has finished eating, so go clear the plates." She removed her hands from the cash register and mentally prepared herself for a new customer.

"Come on, why do you have to be such a bitch?" He went to grab her arm, but she caught his hand in a bone-crushing grip and brought it down and out of sight, her face not giving away her mounting anger. Jack's face contorted with pain and he let out a whimper.

"Touch me again," she warned in a low voice, "and I'll make sure that you never see the light of day again." She released his hand and he all but ran towards the kitchen, probably to whine to Marianna, the manager. Zara thanked the Lord for giving her only one shift with him—she wouldn't have been able to cope were it not for that.

After she collected the money from two other people, Jack returned. He cradled his bony hand against his chest and walked with a severe limp; Zara tried to ignore him, but he radiated pity like a whipped dog. Jack walked past her with a notepad in hand, readying himself to take the orders Marianna most likely yelled at him to get. Zara liked her. "Jack." She reached behind her to rub her lower back.

He stopped in his tracks and looked at her with furrowed eyebrows.

"Gimme. I'll take the orders." She walked up to him and with two fingers, extracted the notepad from his clenched fist.

"Thank you." He smiled with gratitude as she brushed past him.

"I'm not doing it for you," she said over a shoulder, mind already elsewhere, namely, on the pair of men she had seen entering the diner earlier. They were out of place in comparison to the other patrons, and Zara was drawn to the incongruity of their presence. Sammy Boy was frequented by people of the lower class and sometimes even tourists, not by men in gym clothing or suits. As she neared them, the balding one glared at her from behind his bottle-thick glasses.

"It's about time we got some service around here," he muttered, in a voice so familiar, Zara slowed, then started up again. She was certain that she'd heard this voice before, where, she had no clue.

Maybe if he keeps talking I'll remember.

The man sitting across from him lifted his broad shoulders, not bothering to look at who his companion was referring to until she was right beside their table.

"I'm really sorry, sir, we just—"

"Just take the damn order, we don't have any more time to waste." The deep baritone of the other man startled her; Zara's hands trembled as she briskly flipped the cover over the loops then pressed the end of the pen against the small page. 

"W-What would you like to order, sir?" She forced an apologetic smile on her face in the attempt to hide her fear, but the man's dark eyes could read into her very soul.

"A large coffee for me, and an apple pie for my friend." The way he enunciated 'friend' told her that the two were anything but friends, not even acquaintances. What struck her as strange was the fact that not only had he ordered for the both of them, but also how it was dinner time and they hadn't chosen an actual meal.

"Is the crust gluten-free?"

After scribbling the orders down, Zara's gaze flitted to the speaker, who pushed the laminated menu towards her then fidgeted with the collar of his dress shirt. The gesture brought attention to the azure name tag hanging from his shirt pocket;  the printed text was too small to be read at too great of a distance, but it was large enough to be read at less than four feet. "I'm sorry, it's not," she said, her hold on the pen tightening.

"I'll have a lentil soup, then, if that's alright."

The guy from the house. It's him. Vincent James Lockhart.

Her eyebrow twitching, Zara nodded, crossed out 'apple pie', and wrote 'lentil soup' above it instead. She could feel brooding man's eyes on her—it made her skin crawl and her stomach cramp. Everything about him was obscure and off-putting, from the four o'clock shadow on his angular jaw to the black curls which bounced against his head with even the tiniest of movements. Both of his hands were covered in tattoos, and on the one nearest to Zara, she saw an acronym written across the knuckles, S.O.L.A. She wondered what it meant, and who this guy really was. Did Vincent know? 

"Your orders will be ready in fifteen minutes." Her smile was tight-lipped as she closed the notepad with a dry slap and retreated back to the kitchen.

-:-

It took over fifteen minutes of eavesdropping before her peripheral vision caught what her hearing didn't: about halfway through the meal, there was a quick exchange of goods. It had happened so stealthily, if you blinked, you missed it. Vincent's face gave away his shock at what the man in the white tracksuit handed him; it was a packet of bills, which in sliding off the table almost caused the soup to topple over.

Zara was more interested in what the other guy had taken in exchange for the cash. Being knowledgeable about hustles, it wasn't improbable that what the receiver had slipped into his jacket was what some dealers called candy. Whether it was the candy Zara was interested in, it was impossible to tell. Then again, she could've been off with that one. Vincent could've given the guy cocaine, a rich man's drug.

What is Vincent doing messing around with drugs?

He didn't strike her as a dealer. Vincent wasn't the type of man that had a meth lab in his basement, he was a researcher for a pharmaceutical company, things that fell on the opposite ends of a scale. His role wasn't to kill teenage addicts with recreational drugs but to find cures for cancer patients with a few months to live. Vincent wasn't even supposed to be in this part of town; how could someone be so corrupt? He had been given the chance to study at a good university, to make a difference. Yet, here he was, using the skills many could only dream to have to make the wrong choices and benefit the wrong people. He wasn't a snake, he was a maggot.

Zara sprayed one of the tables lining the windows with a cleaning product, then dragged the yellow rag over the splotch, forming angry, lemon-scented circles that poisoned her airways and made her nauseous. She had to get out of there and get some fresh air before every brain cell she had shrivelled up and died from the fumes.

Vincent cannot be working for Max's father...but it's still a possibility. It's a pharmaceutical company.

She draped the musty rag over her forearm and picked up the plates from another table.

If that was the case, would that mean that the Butterfly is legit a drug? But I assumed that they were pills, Max didn't give me any concrete info. It could be a fucking syrup for all I know.

Reaching the kitchen, she dropped the plates into one of the sinks and went out back to grab a mop and bucket.

Oh God, why don't I ever ask for a fucking clarification when I need one? Damn me and my stupidity.

When she walked back into the dining area, the place was almost deserted. They were gone, but Jack hadn't cleared their table. Ignoring whatever he had to say as he rounded the counter, she abandoned the objects in her hand and went to the booth; underneath the mug was a twenty-dollar bill and the torn corner of a napkin with something scribbled on it.

The bill was in her pocket in the fraction of a second, but what had her curiosity was the note.

It was a phone number.

-:-