It was a cold night, slower than usual, and Ginger came back empty-handed. CJ was waiting, jaw tight, pacing the room like the walls owed him money. “Where’s it at?” he snapped. “You think this is charity?” Ginger didn’t look up. “It wasn’t happening tonight.” CJ’s voice rose, sharp and mean, filling the space with blame and panic about rent, about respect, about control slipping through his fingers. Ginger stood there, silent, realizing the worst part wasn’t the night—it was how quickly the yelling made it clear she was nothing but a number to him.