The Glass Shiver

It wasn't just the cold. It was the way the cold got inside you, burrowing past the parka, past the wool, right into the marrow. He could feel it, a dull ache behind his eyes, a phantom tremor in his jaw. Ethan pulled the knitted toque lower, the coarse yarn scratching his forehead. He hated this feeling. This waiting. This gnawing certainty that he'd made a bad trade, a hundred bad trades, and this was just the final, frigid invoice.

He watched his breath plume out, a ghost of himself, evaporating into the frigid air above the frozen Assiniboine. The river, locked solid, hummed with a low, deep resonance, a vibration he felt in his teeth. Below the bridge, where the shadows pooled thick and heavy, that was where Shawn would be. Or not. Shawn was never where he was supposed to be.

Beside him, May shifted, her weight crunching on the packed snow. She didn't shiver. Couldn't. Or wouldn't. Her hands were shoved deep into the pockets of her worn denim jacket, even under the heavy winter coat. Her gaze was fixed, steady, on the same spot beneath the bridge. She was a stone. He envied that. He was all jagged edges, every nerve ending screaming in the wind.

"He's late," Ethan muttered, the words catching on the frost in his throat. He cleared it, a rasp.

May hummed, a low, noncommittal sound. "He's always late."

A dull thud, somewhere far off. A truck perhaps, hitting a pothole. Or ice. Everything was ice. The streetlights above them, encased in a hazy halo, felt like distant, impotent suns. The city below stretched out, a grid of dim lights and colder promises. He thought about the rent, the notice. The doctor's bills for his younger sister. The thin, sharp edge of desperation that had led them here, to this precise, miserable point.

He dug his boot toe into a mound of hardened snow, kicking at it. A shard broke free, skittering. They shouldn't have listened to Cassian. They should have just… begged. Stolen bread. Anything but this.

A figure emerged from the depths beneath the bridge, a silhouette against the slightly less black background of the riverbank. Not tall. Stocky. Head down, hands in pockets. Shawn. His breath caught. Always a little jolt, seeing him. Like a rat emerging from a drain, inevitable and unwelcome.

Shawn stopped a few metres away, just outside the radius of the weakest streetlight. His face was a patchwork of harsh angles and deep-set eyes, framed by the brim of a greasy cap. He didn't smile. He never did. The air around him seemed to thicken, to hum with an unspoken weight.

"Took your time," Ethan managed, forcing the words out. His tongue felt too big in his mouth.

Shawn just tilted his head, a gesture that conveyed nothing, or everything. "You brought it?"

May stepped forward, a slight movement but significant. She reached into her coat, slowly, carefully. She pulled out a small, heavy canvas bag, stained with what looked like old grease. She held it out. Not to Shawn, but generally, between them. She didn't speak.

Shawn took two steps, closing the distance. His eyes, quick and predatory, darted from May to the bag, then to Ethan. He snatched the bag, weighing it in his hand. He didn't open it. Not yet.

"This isn't… what we agreed." His voice was a low growl, barely audible above the hum of the city, yet it cut through the icy air like a surgeon's scalpel.

Ethan felt a surge of cold dread, colder than the wind. "It's all we could get. Market's been… tough. With the holidays and all."

Shawn gave a humourless chuckle. "Tough. Always tough. For you, maybe." He finally opened the bag, just a crack, peering inside. His expression didn't change, but a muscle in his jaw twitched. "This is short. Half of what's owed. Less."

"We tried," May said, her voice flat, emotionless. "Hard. There's no… other way. Not right now."

Shawn finally looked at May, a long, assessing stare. "No other way. Plenty of ways, girl. Just not your ways." He closed the bag, the canvas rustling softly. "The interest, it adds up. Every day."

"We know that," Ethan said, his voice tightening. "We'll get the rest. Just… give us a week. Two."

Shawn shook his head, a slow, deliberate movement. "Time. Time is money, boy. And you don't have much of either." He pocketed the bag, disappearing into his coat. The movement seemed to swallow the light around him, leaving a colder void.

"So, what now?" May asked, her hands still in her pockets. She was looking at his face, searching for something.

Shawn took a step back, melting further into the gloom. "Now… now you remember what you owe. And you remember that some things… some things are more valuable than money. More valuable than anything you've ever held, or ever will." His gaze lingered on Ethan for a moment, then shifted, almost imperceptibly, to May. "Think about that. On these cold nights. Think about what you really can't afford to lose."

He turned, a shadow among shadows, and was gone. The wind picked up, swirling snow dust around their boots. The silence that followed was immense, heavy, punctuated only by the distant, grinding rumble of a train. Ethan felt a profound emptiness, a cold space where his hope used to be.

"What did he mean?" Ethan asked, his voice barely a whisper. He looked at May, her face obscured by the gathering darkness, by the fine sheen of ice crystals on her lashes. She looked tired. Bone-tired. And something else. Something like resignation.

She finally looked at him, her eyes dark and deep. "He meant… we're in deeper than we thought, Ethan. Much deeper. And there's no way out. Not anymore."

A single snowflake, larger than the rest, drifted down and landed on her cheek, lingering for a moment before melting away, leaving a trace like a tear. Ethan felt a shiver, not from the cold, but from the sudden, terrifying clarity of her words. He looked back at the space where Shawn had stood, seeing only the swirling snow. But the threat remained, a sharp, invisible blade poised in the frigid air, waiting for the perfect moment to fall.