Wacker

It was one of those mornings on Wacker Drive where the city felt wrapped in a cold, wet blanket. Fog clung to the high-rises, mixing with exhaust fumes and stale cigarettes, glowing eerily. I’d been camped on this corner long enough to know that in Chicago, hope was a luxury, and the weather wasn’t giving out favors. At least I had a warm coat to keep me from thinking about how I couldn’t feel my feet. The city was waking up, people hurrying by, heads down, avoiding my eyes.

I’d been here long enough that the regulars didn’t even glance my way anymore. I watched the suits shuffle by, eyes locked on their phones or the pavement. I wasn’t looking for much, just enough to get through another day without freezing. I was part of the scenery, just more litter on the sidewalk. I wasn’t even real.

But today, I noticed someone different walking amongst the crowd. Someone new, even amongst the constantly changing faces.

He wasn’t in a hurry like the others. His gaze was far away, like his mind was elsewhere. He didn’t seem to belong to the crowd, though he blended in. His coat was pulled tight, and his eyes were shadowed under a hat that had seen better days.

I expected him to pass like everyone else. But instead, he slowed down. He didn’t look away. He looked right at me, and I felt his gaze settle, heavy and deliberate. He stopped completely as the world narrowed to just the two of us.

“Morning,” he said, his voice cutting through the city noise, rough but warm.

I didn’t say anything at first. People didn’t usually talk to me. They might toss a coin, but they didn’t stop, didn’t look me in the eye. But this guy was different. There was something in his eyes that made me feel... seen. Worse, there was something that made me feel like I didn’t have a choice in the matter. He carried himself like a campaign worker, the kind that crawls through shelters looking for cheap credibility. I used to think those campaign slogans from years ago were a joke. But then the flyers started showing up, Newt’s face plastered on every corner, shaking hands, staring at me, reminding me that no one ever really stopped running. Turns out the whole world was a joke, and all anybody could do was stand in the punchline.

“Cold day,” he continued.

“Yeah,” I finally mumbled. “Cold enough.”

He nodded and reached into his pocket. I braced for the usual—a few coins, maybe a dollar. But he didn’t pull out any money. Instead, he crouched down beside me, ignoring the curious looks from the people rushing by. As he sat, I noticed a slight wince, like a knee that didn’t bend easily. He bore the discomfort in silence, with a quiet dignity that couldn’t be touched by circumstance.

“You eaten today?” he asked, simple and direct. His eyes flicked over me, not with pity, but with quiet acceptance, as if he’d already made peace with whatever answer I might give.

I glanced at his hand, still tucked in his pocket. What was he hiding? A phone? A knife? Maybe something worse. He could be wearing a camera. Maybe this whole thing was being recorded, and any second now, they’d swarm me. My head started to swim. No, no, no. Not again. He simply had his hand in his pocket.

“I know a place that serves breakfast,” he said. “Good food, warm coffee. You up for that?”

I stared at him, waiting for the catch. There’s always a catch. People like him didn’t just stop to help without motive. My pulse quickened. Maybe he’s watching me for someone. Maybe they sent him. The thought dug into my mind like a thorn. I shifted uncomfortably, my hands tightening around the edges of my coat, as if the fabric could shield me from his gaze.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “That’d be good.” But it wasn’t good. Nothing about this felt right.

He smiled, a small, genuine smile, and stood up. “Come on, then.”

I pushed myself up from the ground, my knees protesting. He didn’t rush me or offer to help. When I finally got to my feet, he started walking, and I followed, seeing little other choice. My chest tightened. What if I was already trapped? My mind screamed at me to turn back, to run. I couldn’t trust him. I couldn’t trust anyone. Not anymore. My hands trembled, and I stuffed them into my coat pockets, hoping he didn’t see.

I could see the signs now. It was all there in the way he didn’t rush me, didn’t push. He was letting me walk into my own prison. That’s how they get you. They let you think you have a choice, that you’re in control, when really, they’re just waiting for you to hand yourself over.

I slowed my steps. Maybe I could turn back. Maybe I could just run. But no, that would give me away. He was expecting me to try something like that. He wanted me to panic. If I ran, they’d be on me in seconds, hauling me off to wherever they take people who refuse to vote.

We walked around the corner to a small diner. He opened the door and waved me in. The warmth of the diner hit me, too sudden, too heavy. My heartbeat pounded in my chest, too loud, too fast. The heat pressed against me as I fought to breathe through the thick, warm air. I reached out to steady myself on a plant as I stumbled from the rush, my shirt clinging to my skin. The sound of the plant falling was barely audible over a crash from the kitchen.

The stranger simply apologized to a nearby waiter as he righted the plant with too much care, like it mattered more than I did. His hand lingered for a second too long, fingers brushing the leaves. Was that something hidden between them? A bug? My stomach churned. I looked around, scanning the diner for anything else out of place. The waiter’s lingering gaze confirmed my suspicions that I was being watched.

“Grab a seat,” he said, motioning to a booth.

I slid into the booth, feeling out of place. He sat down across from me, picking up the menu like it was the most natural part of his day. He was still smiling. His eyes were dark, like bottomless wells. The more I looked, the more I felt myself falling into them.

“Order whatever you want,” he said, handing me the menu.

I stared at the pages, pictures of pancakes and eggs blurring. There was a cost for everything. Was this a test? Maybe there was something in the food, something that would mess with my head, make me compliant. The smell of grease and burnt coffee wafted out of the kitchen, shattering my focus.

“The pancakes here are good,” he said. “So’s the coffee. Bacon breakfast sandwich will get you started right.” His voice seemed off. Too measured, like they were carefully rehearsed.

What if he’s reading my mind? The thought gripped me hard, sending a ripple of cold fear down my spine. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was all a trick after all.

I nodded, still not trusting my voice or him.

“So, what’s your story?” he asked, not nosy, just curious.

“Not much to tell,” I said. “Just… fell on hard times.”

He nodded like he understood. “Happens to the best of us.”

His hand twitched again, fingers tapping in a rhythm too deliberate, too precise. My skin prickled as a cold wave ran down my spine. Was someone behind me? My eyes flicked toward the window, but I didn’t dare turn my head. He wasn’t just watching. He was studying me, waiting for the moment I’d slip up.

The food hit the table with a heavy clink, the plates rattling slightly. The smell of syrup was overwhelming, but there was something else—something chemical, just beneath the sweetness. His eyes flicked to my plate, waiting for me to take the first bite. I pushed the plate away slowly, my heart racing in time with my trembling fingers. His smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Eat up,” he said, his voice too calm.

The first bite slid past my lips, syrup coating my throat like oil. My stomach lurched, every instinct screaming at me to stop, but I chewed. His eyes never left me, the satisfaction curling around his lips like a predator watching its prey.

Too late.