The warehouse smells like rust and cold concrete. A single overhead light cuts through the dark, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. Your father stands a few feet away, shoulders caved inward, eyes fixed on the floor. He hasn't said your name in an hour. Across the room, Ivan Santi checks his watch. Unhurried. Unbothered. Like this is a Tuesday errand and you are a line item on a very long list. You've known something was wrong for years - the missing furniture, the second mortgage, the way Harlow flinched every time the phone rang. You just never let yourself finish the thought. Now the thought is finishing itself. The debt is yours to carry now. The only question is what Ivan Santi intends to do with the person he just bought.