Working Off a Fake Debt

To afford train tickets home for New Year's Eve, I searched for a part-time job and stumbled into a livestream that was practically throwing money at the chat.

A young woman in a silk robe rested her chin on her hand. Behind her, a villa glowed under expensive lighting that reflected off polished marble floors.

"Being kept in here is suffocating," she said in a voice that mixed boredom with sweetness. "My sponsor gives me more money than I can spend. Help me out. Take some off my hands."

Cash drops flashed across the screen one after another. I tapped as fast as I could, my heart hammering. A few large ones landed in my account. I was close. One more would cover both my ticket and my boyfriend's.

The streamer leaned closer to the camera.

"He keeps saying my tear mole looks like his girlfriend's," she said, her mouth twisting with disgust. "So unlucky. Of all things, I had to match with some broke girl."

My finger slipped.

I had a tear mole under my eye in the same spot.

The live chat flooded with questions.

[How is the sponsor's girlfriend broke?]

The streamer gave a short snort and reapplied her lipstick, as if correcting a minor flaw.

"He's just messing around. He tricked her into 200,000 dollars in debt. She's so stupid she works multiple jobs to help him pay it off."

A chill settled in my chest. My boyfriend also owed 200,000 dollars.

She continued, her tone light, "The funniest part? He slept with me for three days. When he left, I asked if he was giving her a taste of honey."

She smiled cruelly. "He said all he has to do is claim he's going to work a construction site hauling rebar. The idiot will feel guilty and deliver food all night. So he won't need to please her."

Another large cash drop flashed across the screen. The total reached the exact amount I needed.

My phone rang. Benjamin's name lit up the display.

When I answered, his voice sounded worn down, as if it had scraped against concrete.

"Via, we still don't have enough for the tickets," he said. "I hauled rebar and made a little over 40 dollars. I'm heading home now."

It was 1:00 a.m., and I almost dropped my phone.

The "sponsor" in that cash-spraying livestream… was it Benjamin?

When I did not answer, his voice sharpened. "Why aren't you saying anything? Are you feeling sick?"

My throat felt like sandpaper. "Which site? What kind of job keeps you out this late?"

"Just… near the old district." His words came faster, as if speed could carry him past my question. "I'm almost home. I'll transfer the money first."

The call ended. The livestream continued.

"My sponsor just sent another 150,000 dollars and told me to buy the newest set of lingerie."

She clicked her tongue and pouted at the camera. "Men like this have no concept of money. That set is, what, 30,000 dollars at most? Ugh, so annoying. He sent an extra 120,000 dollars. Fine. You can have it."

One oversized cash drop after another burst across the screen.

I tapped them in a steady, mechanical rhythm. My balance climbed from 100 dollars to 500 dollars, then 600 dollars, then 800 dollars.

After I met Benjamin, we did everything the responsible way. Our paychecks and my side-gig money went into my account. Whenever I saved 400 dollars, I had him send it straight to the debt. We kept only enough for rent and meals.

800 dollars in extra money was a number I never allowed myself to imagine.

My phone buzzed again.

Benjamin transferred 42 dollars. Memo: Work Money.

My hand jerked. I pressed the lock button. The black screen reflected my face back at me. The color had drained from my cheeks. My eyes looked wide and unsteady.

Under my right eye, the small light-brown mole stood out against my skin, like a speck of dried blood on a white wall. It was impossible to ignore.

Half an hour later, Benjamin came home. He still wore the gray work uniform from three days ago. Mud flecked his pant legs. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small paper bag.

"Via," he said gently, as if nothing in the world was wrong. "I kept 8 dollars. I bought you a hot baked potato. Eat it while it's hot."

I took it without speaking. Warmth seeped through the thin paper into my palm.

Since we got together, winter had meant one thing for him: finding some way to earn a little extra so he could buy the one thing I loved most, hot baked potatoes.

I hated spending money, and I hated seeing him worn out. We would split one potato and talk about where to find better part-time work, which market sold cheaper vegetables, how to shave a few more dollars off the week.

A hot baked potato was the one small comfort that made our cramped life feel steady.

Tonight, I bit into it. The soft flesh turned to paste in my mouth and stuck in my throat. No matter how hard I tried, I could not swallow.

Was it really him? It had to be a coincidence. It had to.

"I got back from my business trip yesterday and wanted to buy you one," he said, his tone careful and measured. "But a friend told me a construction site needed men to haul rebar. I needed the money, so I went."

He continued reasonably, "They paid us tonight. I ran all over looking. Luckily, the county fair stays open late. The stall you like was still open."

Everything lined up. Even the three days he had not come home made sense.

He smiled and leaned closer, his mouth parting slightly, waiting for me to feed him a bite the way I usually did.

I did not move. I held his gaze. "Is the site far? Next time, I'll go with you."

His smile vanished at once, as if someone had cut a string.

He turned toward the bathroom. "It's dirty and chaotic. Too many men. I wouldn't feel right taking you there."

He paused at the door. "I'm going to shower first. I'm covered in dust."

"A shower…" I muttered.

Before the streamer ended her broadcast, the last thing she said was…