[Backscene: The Debt — Raven & the Father]

  Setting: A dimly lit office, somewhere in Brooklyn. The air smells like stale cigars, leather, and danger. It’s past midnight. The city outside is loud, but in here—it’s silent. Until Raven speaks.

  Raven: (leaning back in her chair, legs crossed, holding a gss of expensive whiskey)

  "You thought you could borrow from me... and not pay back?"

  Mr. Holloway: (sweating, fidgeting, older man in his 50s, worn-down suit)

  "I-I just need more time. Please, Raven, my wife’s sick, my daughter—"

  Raven: (voice cutting like a bde)

  "Your excuses bore me."

  She stands up slowly. The red glow of the neon "Moretti Imports" sign outside throws a hellish light across her face. Her heels click like gunshots on the marble floor as she circles him.

  Raven:

  "You came crawling to me, Mr. Holloway. I gave you ninety thousand—no contracts, no colteral, just my word. That’s rare in my world."

  Mr. Holloway: (voice cracking)

  "I’ll pay. I swear. I just—"

  Raven:

  "You just what? Thought I was generous? Kind? Maybe even merciful?"

  She chuckles darkly and leans down, inches from his face.

  Raven: (soft, venomous)

  "I’m none of those things."

  She walks to her desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out a photograph. A girl—young, smiling, her eyes full of life. His daughter.

  Raven:

  "Pretty, isn’t she? Smart too, I bet. A future ahead."

  Mr. Holloway: (voice turning desperate)

  "Leave her out of this. Please!"

  Raven:

  "Oh, but I didn’t bring her in. You did. When you failed to pay."

  She tosses the photo back on the desk.

  Raven:

  "You have 7 days. Pay... or I take what's owed."

  She turns, her silhouette framed by shadows and power.

  Raven: (whispers as he’s escorted out)

  "And next time… don’t beg. I hate when men beg."

  _ _ _ _

  [Backscene Continued – Raven’s POV | After Mr. Holloway is Escorted Out]

  The heavy oak door groaned as it shut.

  Click.

  Silence.

  Raven stood there, her back still turned, fingers grazing the edge of the desk where the girl’s photo y. Her eyes traced the grain of the wood, but her mind pyed only one image—those innocent, clueless eyes smiling up at the camera.

  She sighed, low and tired, the sound sliding past her lips like smoke. “Daughters,” she murmured. “Men always gamble with their daughters.”

  She picked up the photograph again, tilting it toward the soft glow of her desk mp.

  A student—fresh-faced, probably working part-time, pnning college, dreaming stupid little dreams like getting out of this city. She had no idea her father's sins had already tied ropes around her ankles.

  A knock.

  “Enter,” Raven said, already knowing who it was.

  Vito stepped in, his voice low. “He’s gone. Crying, mostly. Like you said… no begging.”

  She didn’t smile. That wasn’t funny.

  “How old is she?” she asked, eyes never leaving the photo.

  “Eighteen, maybe nineteen.”

  Raven ran her thumb across the girl's face, slowly. “Of age, then.”

  Vito waited. Raven didn’t speak. She reached for her ashtray, lit a cigarette with a sharp snap of her lighter, and stared at the smoke curling upward like it was a vision.

  “When’s the mother home?” she asked, casually.

  “Usually evenings. Works cleaning shifts. Little sister too. Young. Around ten.”

  She let the information settle, heavy like the fog outside. “We go in the day. Quiet. Civil.”

  She turned, slipping the photo into her breast pocket. “I’m not here to make a mess, Vito. I’m here to collect.”

  He nodded, then hesitated. “What are you gonna do with the girl?”

  Raven looked at him, eyes ft. Cold. Icy steel with a hidden bde beneath.

  “Remind her what it means to be someone’s debt.”

  She crushed the cigarette out.

  “Now get the car. We’ll pay them a visit tomorrow.”

  ---