Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights of the 7-Eleven hummed their eternal, migraine-inducing song at 2:47 AM. Shane Hollander stood behind the counter, his eyelids heavy as concrete blocks, trying to focus on the organic chemistry notes spread across the scratched surface. The words blurred together. Electron configurations. Orbital hybridization. Coach's voice screaming about his weak backcheck during practice four hours ago.
He should be sleeping. He had an 8 AM lecture and another practice at noon.
The electronic chime announced a customer, and Shane didn't bother looking up immediately. Probably another drunk college kid wanting Doritos and a Gatorade, or a taxi driver grabbing coffee. He finished highlighting a sentence about molecular geometry before lifting his head.
Three men walked in.
The two in front moved with the kind of purposeful awareness Shane associated with bouncers or cops—scanning the store, hands loose at their sides, expensive watches catching the harsh light. They wore dark suits despite the hour, despite the early September heat that still clung to the New York streets.
Behind them came a third man.
He was tall, maybe six-two, with sharp Slavic features and pale eyes that seemed to catalog everything in a single sweep. His suit probably cost more than Shane's tuition for the semester—charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, with a black shirt underneath and no tie. Dark hair swept back from his forehead. He moved like someone who'd never questioned whether a space belonged to him.
The two men in front fanned out, one heading toward the back of the store, the other taking up position near the door.
Shane blinked at them, then at the third man who approached the counter with measured steps.
"Hey," Shane said, his voice rough with exhaustion. "We don't allow loitering. If your friends aren't buying anything, they need to wait outside."
The man stopped. His pale eyes fixed on Shane with an intensity that should have triggered some primal warning system.
Shane just wanted to finish his chapter on VSEPR theory.
"My associates will purchase something," the man said. His accent was thick, Russian, each word precisely formed. "As will I."
"Cool." Shane straightened up, wincing as his lower back protested. He'd taken a hard check into the boards during practice, and his entire left side felt like one giant bruise. "What can I get you?"
The man tilted his head slightly, studying Shane with an expression that might have been curiosity. "You are not concerned?"
"About what? Look, man, I've got an exam tomorrow and I just spent three hours getting my ass handed to me at practice. I'm too tired to be concerned about anything except whether I can stay awake long enough to understand Lewis structures." Shane rubbed his eyes. "Do you want something or not?"
A pause. The man's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Coffee," he said. "Black."
"Machine's over there." Shane gestured vaguely to the left without looking. "Cups are next to it. Small, medium, or large. There's a price list on the wall."
"You will not serve me?"
Shane finally looked at him properly—really looked. The guy was probably in his mid-twenties, handsome in that severe, angular way. Definitely foreign money. Definitely someone used to people jumping when he spoke.
"Dude, this is a 7-Eleven, not a Starbucks. Self-serve." Shane yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. "I'm not a barista. I'm a cashier who's questioning all his life choices."
The man stared at him. In the background, one of his associates had frozen in the act of reaching for a bag of chips, watching the interaction with visible tension.
Then the man laughed.
It was a short, sharp sound, like he'd surprised himself.
"I see," he said, and moved toward the coffee station with that same predatory grace.
Shane returned to his notes. Molecular geometry. Tetrahedral. Trigonal planar. He was definitely going to fail this exam.
The man returned with a large coffee, black as promised. He set it on the counter along with a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter—the expensive kind, brushed steel.
Shane rang it up. "$8.47."
The man pulled out a wallet—black leather, thick with cash—and extracted a hundred-dollar bill.
"You've got to be kidding me," Shane muttered.
"There is a problem?"
"Yeah, there's a problem. It's almost 3 AM and you're paying for nine bucks worth of stuff with a hundred. Do you know how much that's going to clean out my register?" Shane looked up at him, too tired for customer service politeness. "You really don't have anything smaller?"
The man's expression shifted into something that might have been amusement. "No."
"Of course not." Shane sighed and opened the register, counting out bills. "Rich people, I swear. You're worse than the guys who pay for a candy bar with a fifty."
"You believe I am rich?"
"Dude, your suit costs more than my car. Which, granted, isn't saying much because my car is a 2003 Honda Civic with a broken AC and a suspicious rattling sound, but still." Shane handed over the change. "There. Ninety-one dollars and fifty-three cents. Try not to spend it all in one place."
The man took the money slowly, his fingers brushing Shane's palm. His hands were warm, calloused in unexpected places.
"You are a student," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Unfortunately." Shane gestured at his textbook. "NYU. Junior year. Biochemistry major because apparently I hate myself."
"And you play hockey."
Shane's attention sharpened slightly. "How'd you know that?"
The man gestured at Shane's face. "You have a bruise forming on your cheekbone. Your knuckles are taped. You move like an athlete—favoring your left side currently. And there is a hockey stick behind the counter."
Shane glanced back at his stick propped against the wall—his backup, the one he kept at work in case he had time to hit the rink before or after shifts.
"Observant," Shane admitted. "Yeah, I play. Club team at NYU, and I practice with a beer league team in Brooklyn when I can. Not that I've been playing well lately. Coach says my head's not in the game." He rubbed his neck. "Which is probably true. Hard to focus on hockey when you're running on four hours of sleep and caffeine."
"Why do you work here if you are so tired?"
"Because tuition doesn't pay itself, and my scholarship only covers so much." Shane shrugged. "Late shift pays an extra two bucks an hour, and nobody bothers me, so I can study. Usually."
The man picked up his coffee, regarding Shane over the rim. "What position do you play?"
"Center. Sometimes wing if we need it." Shane leaned against the counter. "You follow hockey?"
"I am Russian. Of course I follow hockey."
"Fair point. KHL or NHL?"
"Both. I prefer KHL—more... aggressive play." The man sipped his coffee. "NHL has become too soft. Too many rules."
Shane snorted. "Spoken like someone who appreciates a good fight. Let me guess—you grew up watching Soviet hockey? The Big Red Machine era?"
"My father did. He made certain I understood what real hockey looked like." Something flickered across the man's face, there and gone. "Physical. Unforgiving. No weakness permitted."
"Sounds like my coach," Shane said. "He played semi-pro in Canada back in the day. Keeps telling me I'm too nice on the ice. Apparently I need to be more of an asshole."
"Perhaps he is correct."
"Yeah, well, I save my asshole energy for customer service." Shane grinned, gesturing around the empty store. "As you can see, it's really paying off."
The man's lips twitched. "You are not concerned about offending customers?"
"At 3 AM? The only people who come in here are insomniacs, shift workers, and drunk people. Nobody's writing Yelp reviews." Shane stretched, his spine popping. "Besides, I'm too tired to pretend to be perky. You want perky, come back during day shift. Those people are terrifying with their enthusiasm."
"I think not." The man set his coffee down, still watching Shane with that unsettling intensity. "I prefer this shift."
One of the associates approached—the one who'd been near the door. He leaned in and murmured something in Russian, too quick and low for Shane to catch more than a few words. The man's expression hardened, and he responded in the same language, his tone sharp with authority.
The associate nodded and stepped back.
"Problem?" Shane asked.
"Nothing that concerns you." The man picked up his coffee and cigarettes. "You should go home. Sleep. You will perform poorly on your examination otherwise."
"Can't. Shift doesn't end until six." Shane glanced at the clock. "Three more hours of this fluorescent hell."
"You could close early."
"And get fired? No thanks. I need this job." Shane returned to his textbook, already dismissing the conversation. "Besides, I've got studying to do. Might as well get paid for it."
The man stood there for a moment longer, and Shane could feel his gaze like a physical weight. When he finally looked up, the man was still watching him with an expression Shane couldn't quite read.
"What?"
"You did not ask my name."
Shane blinked. "Was I supposed to? You didn't ask mine either."
"Most people..." The man paused. "Most people wish to know who I am."
"Okay. Who are you?"
The man smiled—a real smile this time, sharp and dangerous and somehow pleased. "Ilya."
"Shane." He offered a lazy two-fingered salute. "Nice to meet you, I guess. Enjoy your overpriced coffee."
"Shane," Ilya repeated, as if testing the name. "Does not match your face."
"Oh, I'm half japanese on my mom's side. Dad's Canadian, which is where I get the hockey obsession and the inexplicable love of poutine." Shane yawned again. "The Japanese half is where I get the dark hair and the ability to look like I'm judging you even when I'm not."
"And are you? Judging me?"
Shane considered this. "I'm judging your choice to pay with a hundred-dollar bill. That was a dick move."
Ilya laughed again, that same surprised sound. "Yes. It was."
He turned to leave, his associates falling into step behind him. At the door, he paused and looked back.
"I will return," he said.
"Cool. Bring smaller bills next time."
The door chimed as they left. Through the window, Shane watched them climb into a black Mercedes with tinted windows—the kind of car that screamed money and danger in equal measure. It pulled away from the curb smoothly, disappearing into the sparse late-night traffic.
Shane returned to his textbook.
Molecular geometry. Electron pairs. The exam was in five hours.
He didn't think about the Russian man with the expensive suit and the pale, calculating eyes. Didn't wonder why someone like that would come to a shitty 7-Eleven at 3 AM, or why his associates had moved like trained security, or why the air had felt different—charged, dangerous—while they'd been in the store.
Shane Hollander, exhausted biochemistry major and mediocre hockey player, had more important things to worry about.
Like whether he could memorize the difference between molecular orbital theory and valence bond theory before his brain completely shut down.
He highlighted another sentence and reached for his energy drink.
Just three more hours.
Outside, in the back of the Mercedes, Ilya Rozanov sipped his coffee and stared at the receipt in his hand.
"Boss?" Dmitri, his head of security, glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "Everything okay?"
Ilya looked at the name tag printed on the receipt. SHANE H.
Shane. Half-Japanese, half-Canadian. Biochemistry student. Hockey player. Working the graveyard shift at a convenience store, too exhausted to recognize danger when it walked through his door.
Too exhausted—or too indifferent—to treat Ilya with the fear that usually preceded him like a shadow.
You're worse than the guys who pay for a candy bar with a fifty.
Ilya smiled into his coffee.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Everything is fine."
He would return. Soon.
There was something refreshing about a man who looked at Ilya Rozanov—vor v zakone, authority in the Bratva, a man whose name made grown men nervous—and saw only an annoying customer with poor bill denomination choices.
Something refreshing, and something dangerous.
Ilya had always been drawn to dangerous things.
The thing about being broke in New York City was that it wasn't dramatic. It wasn't some movie montage with inspiring music. It was just... grinding. Day after day, a constant calculation of what Shane could and couldn't afford, what he could put off, what absolutely had to be dealt with now.
Tuesday morning, 6 AM: Shane's alarm went off in his shoebox apartment in Washington Heights. He'd found the place on Craigslist—a room barely big enough for a twin bed and a desk, sharing a bathroom with three other guys, but it was cheap and the landlord didn't ask too many questions. He rolled out of bed, every muscle protesting. His hamstrings were still tight from yesterday's conditioning.
The apartment was freezing. The radiator clanked and hissed but produced more noise than heat. Shane pulled on two pairs of socks, sweatpants under his jeans, and an old coat that wasn't doing the job, with a hole in it.
Morning skate was at seven. He grabbed a protein bar (the cheap kind that tasted like cardboard and protein powder) and headed out into the dark.
The subway was packed even at this hour. Shane stood pressed between a woman in scrubs and a guy in a suit, trying to review his biochem notes on his phone. Enzyme kinetics. Michaelis-Menten equation. The words blurred together.
Practice was brutal. Coach was pushing them hard with regionals coming up, and Shane's body was running on fumes. He'd pulled his groin during drills and spent the last twenty minutes with ice strapped to his thigh, trying not to think about how he couldn't afford to miss shifts at the store.
After practice: shower in the locker room (free hot water, he stayed under the spray as long as he could justify), then straight to his 10 AM organic chemistry lecture. He was supposed to have bought the textbook—$340, used—but he'd been putting it off for three weeks now. He shared with the guy next to him, a finance major named Chris who looked at Shane like he was some kind of charity case.
"Dude, just rent it," Chris said. "It's like a hundred bucks."
Shane didn't bother explaining that he didn't have a hundred bucks. That his bank account currently had $47 in it and he needed at least $30 for groceries to last until his next paycheck.
Lunch was a sleeve of saltines he'd taken from the store and a cup of coffee from the dining hall (he'd learned to time it so he could slip in behind someone with a meal plan). His stomach growled through his entire biochem lab.
Then: two hours in the library trying to finish a problem set, his brain moving like sludge. The heating was better here than his apartment, so he stayed as long as possible, hunched over his laptop.
His phone buzzed. A text from his mom: How are classes going? Dad wants to know if you need anything.
Shane stared at the message. His parents had helped as much as they could—they'd covered his first semester, stretched themselves thin to do it. But his dad's restaurant had been struggling, and Shane knew they were barely keeping their heads above water themselves. He'd told them he had it handled. That the hockey scholarship and his job were enough.
He was lying.
All good, he texted back. Busy but good. Tell Dad I'm fine.
Another buzz. His landlord: Rent is due Friday. No extensions this month.
Shane closed his eyes. Rent was $800. He had $47. His paycheck from the store would be $340 after taxes. He was short, and he had no idea where he was going to find the difference.
He opened his banking app and stared at his credit card balance: $2,100. The limit was $2,500. He'd been telling himself he wouldn't use it, that he'd keep it for emergencies, but apparently his life was just one long emergency now.
He put $400 on the card for rent. The interest rate was 23%. He tried not to think about it.
By the time he got to his shift at the 7-Eleven, it was 10 PM and he'd been awake for sixteen hours. His groin still ached. He had a problem set due tomorrow that he hadn't started. And he was so hungry his hands were shaking.
He made himself a cup of ramen with the hot water dispenser and ate it standing behind the counter, trying to read his textbook between customers.
The door chimed.
Shane looked up, and there was Ilya.
He'd been coming in regularly over the past few weeks—always late at night, always with at least one of his intimidating friends, always buying something small. Coffee. Cigarettes. Once, a bag of gummy bears, which had been surreal. He always paid with large bills and never seemed bothered when Shane gave him shit about it.
"Hey," Shane said around a mouthful of noodles. "Let me guess. Coffee?"
"Da." Ilya approached the counter, his eyes scanning Shane with that same unsettling intensity. "You look tired."
"I am tired. I'm always tired." Shane swallowed his noodles. "It's kind of my default state at this point."
"You are eating ramen for dinner."
"I'm eating ramen for dinner, lunch, and sometimes breakfast. It's called being a college student." Shane gestured at the cup. "Want some? I can make you one. It's chicken flavor. Or 'chicken flavored,' I guess. I don't think actual chickens were involved."
Ilya's mouth twitched. "I will pass."
"Your loss." Shane finished the noodles and tossed the cup in the trash. "So what can I get you? And please tell me you brought normal bills this time."
"I have a twenty."
"Oh thank god. You're learning."
Ilya went to get his coffee, and Shane tried to focus on his textbook. Protein folding. Chaperones. His eyes kept drifting closed.
When Ilya returned, he set the coffee down and then just... stood there. Watching.
Shane looked up. "What?"
"You are cold."
"What? No I'm not."
"You are wearing two sweatshirts and you are still shivering."
Shane glanced down at himself. He was wearing his coat over a hoodie over a long-sleeve shirt, and yeah, okay, he was shivering a little. The store's heating was shit and his coat was shit and everything was shit.
"It's fine," Shane said. "I'm fine."
"It is October."
"Yeah, I'm aware. I have a calendar." Shane rang up the coffee. "Three-fifty."
Ilya handed him the twenty but didn't take his change. Instead, he started unwinding the scarf from around his neck.
Shane blinked. "What are you doing?"
"You need this more than I do." Ilya set the scarf on the counter—a long, charcoal gray thing that looked incredibly soft. Then he pulled off his gloves, black leather, and set those down too.
"Dude, no. I'm not taking your stuff."
"You are freezing."
"I'm fine."
"Hollander." Ilya's voice was firm, almost commanding. "Take them."
Shane stared at the scarf and gloves. They looked expensive—everything Ilya wore looked expensive—but they also looked warm. And Shane was so fucking cold, all the time, and his hands were always numb by the end of his shift.
"I can't just take your scarf," Shane said, but his resolve was weakening.
"You can. You will." Ilya pushed them across the counter. "Consider it payment for your excellent customer service."
"My customer service is terrible. I told you the coffee tastes like ass."
"Exactly. Honesty is rare." Ilya picked up his coffee. "Wear them. I will be offended if you do not."
He left before Shane could argue further, the door chiming behind him.
Shane looked down at the scarf and gloves. He picked up the scarf—it was cashmere, incredibly soft, and still warm from Ilya's body heat. He wrapped it around his neck and immediately felt better.
The gloves fit perfectly.
He told himself he'd give them back next time Ilya came in. But for now, just for tonight, he'd let himself be warm.
The next two weeks were more of the same. Classes, practice, work, repeat. Shane wore the scarf and gloves everywhere. They were the warmest things he owned. He stopped shivering on the subway. His hands stopped going numb.
He didn't think much about them until he was in the locker room after practice and Tyler, one of his teammates, grabbed his wrist.
"Dude. Are those Merola?"
Shane looked down at the gloves. "I don't know. Maybe?"
"Let me see." Tyler turned Shane's hand over, examining the gloves. "Holy shit. These are Merola. Like, actual Merola. Where did you get these?"
"A friend gave them to me. Why?"
"A friend gave you—" Tyler laughed. "Shane, these gloves are like three grand. Minimum."
Shane's brain stuttered. "What?"
"Yeah, man. Merola. They're handmade in Italy. Custom-fitted. You have to special order them." Tyler was still holding Shane's wrist, looking at the gloves like they were holy relics. "And that scarf—is that Loro Piana?"
Shane touched the scarf around his neck. "I don't know what that is."
"Let me see the tag."
Shane unwound the scarf and found the small tag inside. Loro Piana. Tyler's eyes went wide.
"Okay, that's like seven grand. Easy. Maybe more depending on the weight." Tyler looked at Shane like he'd grown a second head. "Who the fuck gave you ten thousand dollars worth of accessories?"
Shane's mouth was dry. "You're joking."
"I'm not joking. My dad wears this shit. I know what it costs." Tyler handed the scarf back. "Seriously, who gave these to you?"
"Just... a guy. A customer at work." Shane's mind was reeling. Ten thousand dollars. He was wearing ten thousand dollars. He'd been wearing ten thousand dollars for two weeks, on the subway, to practice, to his shifts at the store.
He'd almost spilled ramen on seven thousand dollars worth of scarf last night.
"A customer gave you ten grand in clothes?" Tyler raised an eyebrow. "Is he like... your sugar daddy or something?"
"What? No. He's just—" Shane stopped. He didn't actually know what Ilya was. A regular customer. A guy who came in late at night and bought coffee and made weird intense eye contact. "He's just a guy."
"A guy who gives out Loro Piana scarves. Sure." Tyler clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, don't lose them. That's like a semester of tuition right there."
Shane sat on the bench after Tyler left, staring at the gloves in his hands.
A semester of tuition.
His rent was due again in two weeks. He had three hundred dollars in his account. He'd been trying to figure out how to ask his manager for more shifts, but the store was cutting hours. He'd been living on ramen and protein bars and the occasional free pizza at team events. His credit card balance was up to $2,400.
He looked at the scarf.
Seven thousand dollars.
He pulled out his phone and googled "sell Loro Piana scarf NYC."
The consignment shop in SoHo was the kind of place Shane would never normally enter. Everything in the window cost more than his monthly rent. But they specialized in luxury goods, and according to their website, they bought items outright.
The woman behind the counter looked at Shane like he was tracking mud on her pristine floors. He was wearing his practice gear and his shitty coat, and he definitely didn't belong here.
"Can I help you?" she asked, in a tone that suggested she'd rather not.
"I want to sell these." Shane set the scarf and gloves on the counter.
Her expression changed immediately. She picked up the scarf, examining it carefully, checking the tags. Then the gloves.
"Where did you get these?"
"They were a gift."
"Do you have proof of purchase?"
"No. Like I said, they were a gift."
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Wait here."
She disappeared into the back. Shane stood there, trying not to touch anything, very aware that he probably smelled like hockey equipment.
She returned with an older man in an expensive suit. He examined the scarf and gloves with the same careful attention, then looked at Shane.
"These are authentic," he said. "Excellent condition. We can offer you eight thousand."
Shane's heart jumped. "Eight thousand dollars?"
"Yes. Cash or check?"
"Cash." The word came out before Shane could think about it. "Cash is good."
They had him sign some paperwork. He had to show his ID. And then the man went into the back and returned with a envelope full of hundred-dollar bills.
Shane walked out of the store in a daze, the envelope tucked into his inner coat pocket.
Eight thousand dollars.
He could pay rent for the next ten months. He could buy his textbooks. He could eat actual food. He could pay down his credit card. He could breathe.
He stopped at a Target on the way home and bought a new scarf and gloves for forty bucks. They were polyester and not nearly as soft, but they were warm enough.
That night, he paid his rent, bought groceries, ordered his textbooks, and paid off his entire credit card balance. He put the rest in his savings account and stared at the number.
$5,847.
He'd never had that much money in his life.
He felt like he could breathe for the first time in months.
Ilya came in four nights later.
Shane was restocking the cooler when the door chimed. He glanced up and saw Ilya, flanked as always by his two shadows. Ilya's eyes went immediately to Shane's neck.
To the cheap Target scarf.
Shane straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Hey. Coffee?"
Ilya approached the counter slowly. His expression was unreadable, but there was something sharp in his eyes. "Where is the scarf I gave you?"
"Oh." Shane touched the polyester around his neck. "I sold it."
Silence.
Ilya stared at him. Behind him, one of the big guys—Dmitri, Shane had learned his name—made a choking sound.
"You sold it," Ilya repeated, his voice very quiet.
"Yeah. And the gloves." Shane shrugged. "They were worth like ten grand. I looked it up. That's insane. I can't just walk around wearing ten thousand dollars."
"I gave them to you."
"I know, and that was really nice, but dude—ten thousand dollars. Do you know what I can do with ten thousand dollars?" Shane started counting on his fingers. "I can pay rent for almost a year. I can buy all my textbooks. I can actually eat real food. I can pay off my credit card. It's literally life-changing money."
Ilya's expression was doing something complicated. He looked shocked, yes, but also... something else. Something Shane couldn't identify.
"You sold them," Ilya said again, like he was testing the words.
"Well, I got eight thousand for them. The consignment place takes a cut. But still. Eight thousand dollars." Shane gestured at his new scarf. "And I bought a new scarf for twenty bucks. It's not as nice, but it's warm. So really, I came out ahead."
One of the big guys muttered something in Russian. It sounded like a prayer.
Ilya was still staring at Shane. Then, slowly, his mouth curved into a smile. Not the small, controlled almost-smiles Shane had seen before. An actual smile, showing teeth, reaching his eyes.
"You sold them," he said, and he sounded... pleased? Proud?
Shane frowned. "Why do you keep saying it like that? Are you mad—"
"No." Ilya's smile widened. "No, Shane. I am not mad."
"Okay, good. Because I really needed the money, and it seemed stupid to just wear them when I could—"
"Most people," Ilya interrupted, "would not dare."
"Dare to what? Sell a scarf?"
"To sell a gift from me." Ilya leaned against the counter, still smiling that strange, sharp smile. "To treat something I gave them as a commodity. To choose practicality over sentimentality."
Shane blinked. "It's a scarf. It's not like you gave me your grandmother's wedding ring or something."
"No," Ilya agreed. "It is not."
There was a long pause. Shane had the distinct feeling he was missing something, some subtext he was too tired to parse.
"So... coffee?" Shane tried.
"Yes. Coffee." Ilya straightened.
He went to get his coffee, and Shane watched him go, confused but relieved he wasn't angry.
Behind the counter, Shane's phone buzzed. His bank app, showing his balance: $5,847.
He smiled.
Maybe he'd actually survive this semester after all.