On my fourteenth birthday, my father took me to a prostitute. When we left, he slapped me on the back and said, now, my son, you are a man. He didn’t ask any questions. So, I didn’t tell him how the woman failed in her attempts to excite me. How she got frustrated then angry then contemptuous. I didn’t tell him how she called me all the same things the boys at school did – the reason he brought me there in the first place, I suspect. I didn’t tell him how I begged her to stop. How I covered my ears as tears threatened to fall. How my hurt and sadness turned to anger when she went to open the door so she could go tell everyone, my father, about my…difficulty. How I jumped from the bed, grabbed her and covered her mouth with my hand to make her stop. How she bit me, so I threw her to the floor, and she hit her head. How I pounced on her, my hands around her neck, while she struggled to free herself. How, as I saw her terror, her weakness to my strength, I was able to do exactly as she'd wanted. He'd wanted. No, I didn’t tell him any of that. I just thanked him for his gift.

My friends told me I did not have a chance. I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. I moved over to her table.

We closed the bar that night.

Her name was Katarina and she was indeed, nothing but trouble. She drank too much. She left her apartment at all hours of the night, ostensibly to visit a sick friend or "make a delivery". She always looked worse for the wear upon returning.

I found ways to visit her with coffee and croissants in the morning. She found the most delightful ways to accept without returning the favor.

Katarina needed money and certainly should have asked. While always an alluring dresser, she began to display the ragged edges of one accustomed to a better life, but not ready to accept the financial ease of downgrading to one station below her current situation.

Intrigued, I followed Katarina, from a safe distance, looking for clues.

It only took a week.

Katarina worked early mornings at a hospice that housed her mother in exchange for her labor. I read the agreement when it fell from Katarina's purse. The current balance indicated she had a duration of two years remaining to even the account.

That night, after dinner, I confronted Katarina.

She broke down in tears.

I offered her money. Katarina and her mother could live with me. She reached into her purse for another tissue to wipe her eyes. When three more copies fell out, each with a different mother's name, her tears instantly dried.

I should have known better.

And said good-bye.

It was worth seeing her twirl on her heels and leave with a handful of marked bills. She is sure to spend them with the next criminals I get to investigate.

Oh, the life of an FBI agent.

She drew Death and held it up to the light. Her client shuddered. She smirked, but only slightly, to not rouse suspicion. She knew things weren't bad as the nervous man seated at her table seemed to think. She set the card down between them. The question now though, was would she play it up or give it to him straight? Drama paid handsomely.

The reader sat back in her chair and crossed a lean, earth-toned leg over top a bulkier, metallic one.

"So, who do you think is going to die?"

The man's nostrils flared. He looked off into the darkness of the lush vermillion carpeting. She scanned over his jacket, his shoes. They were new. Expensive. But his hair was shaggy, straw-like. Despite his shockingly flawless face, the calluses on his palms caught the delicate lace draped along the table. He had money, but it hadn't been for long. And it was burning one hell of a hole in his pocket. Despite his fortune, he reeked of stress.

Xyra's humanity got the best of her. Her smirk retreated and she uncrossed her legs and leaned forward.

"Look. The Death card usually isn't what people think it is. In some cases, it can be a good thing. It rarely means actual death. It's more like the end of a cycle."

Her client remained silent, staring at the card between them. He furrowed his brow and his mouth fell into a quick but prominent pout, like a child fighting back an objection. He swallowed hard, then released with a heavy sigh.

"Thank you, Miss-"

"Xyra. Just Xyra. You want a clarifier card? Only five more bucks."

"No. I'm okay. Forty dollars, right?"

"Forty-four."

"Is fifty okay? You can keep the rest."

"Alright."

The young man clumsily fished a roll of crisp bills from his pocket and tossed the reluctant cash onto the table. Xyra managed a quick glance and surmised that he was carrying a couple grand. At least.

The shaggy-haired high roller stood to his feet, gave Xyra a soft nod and headed out of the studio into the frigid air of Starsun City. Xyra scooped up Death and placed it with the rest of her deck. She looked over the cash on the table.

He'd given her sixty.

------

The next morning, Xyra woke to a loud banging on her door of her shop. She pushed herself off her cot and limped to the storefront, gears whining beneath her stiff gait. She smelled humans. More than one. One significantly more stressed than the other. She swung the door open to find two men flashing SCPD badges at her. The older, broader man spoke first.

"Are you Xyra Heddingbone?"

"This some kind of shakedown? I've got papers."

"No ma'am, not a shakedown. I'm Detective Meyer. You know this man? Found beaten to death in his hotel room." The detective held up a photograph up with a beefy hand. Xyra's nostrils flared. "Your business card was in his pocket."