Novels by Stasia Phina

Marcus returned to work the next day at 5:50 AM, ten minutes early. His body screamed in protest with every movement, but he ignored it. Pain was temporary. Losing this job would be permanent.Brian was already there, coffee in hand, reviewing the day's assignments on his clipboard."Reid. You're early.""Yes, sir.""Good." Brian studied him, noting the new boots, the better gloves. "Tommy says you did solid work yesterday. Keep it up and we'll talk about more responsibility.""Thank you, sir. I will."The day's work was just as brutal as the first hauling lumber, mixing concrete, digging trenches. But Marcus's new boots fit better with thick socks, and the leather gloves protected his ravaged hands.By lunch, Tommy brought him another sandwich. This time, Marcus tried to refuse."I can't keep taking your food.""My wife makes too much," Tommy insisted. "Besides, you need the calories. Construction work burns through energy fast. Trust me, you'll pay it forward someday."Marcus accept

Marcus woke at 4:30 AM, his body conditioned by thirteen years of prison routines. The alarm he'd set an old wind-up clock Uncle James had provided hadn't even gone off yet.He showered quickly in lukewarm water, the building's temperamental heater offering little comfort. He dressed in his work clothes, jeans and the plain gray t-shirt and forced down two slices of bread with peanut butter. It sat heavy in his stomach, but he'd need the energy.By 5:45 AM, Marcus stood outside the gates of Peterson Construction, his new-used work boots stiff on his feet, gloves tucked into his back pocket. The sun was just beginning to paint the eastern sky in shades of orange and pink.Other workers began arriving in trucks and beat-up cars, eyeing Marcus with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. He kept his head down, his posture non-threatening but not weak. Prison had taught him how to read a room, how to position himself to avoid unnecessary conflict while not appearing as prey.At exactly 6 AM

Marcus stood outside the thrift store for a long moment before going in.The glass window was dusty. A sign reading DONATIONS WELCOME hung slightly crooked on the door. Inside, rows of old clothes and shoes were stacked neatly, each one carrying a story that no one asked about anymore.Marcus pushed the door open.A small bell rang.The smell inside was a mix of old fabric and cleaning soap. It reminded him of the prison laundry room, but quieter. Calmer.He walked slowly between the shelves, his hands in his jacket pockets. He had twenty-seven dollars left. That was it. No second chances. No mistakes allowed.He stopped in front of a rack of boots.Most of them were too big. Too small. Cracked. Torn.Then he saw them.Steel-toed boots.They were dark brown, scuffed at the sides, the leather worn thin in places. But the soles were thick, and the metal at the front was still strong. Work boots. The kind made for long hours and hard ground.Marcus picked one up and pressed the sole with

That night, Marcus couldn't sleep.The bed was too soft. The room too quiet. He kept waiting for the count, for the night guard's flashlight sweeping his cell, for the sounds of men crying or fighting or dying in the dark.At 2 AM, he gave up and did pushups until his arms shook. Then sit-ups. Then he stood in the center of the room and practiced the breathing techniques his father had taught him for shooting slow inhale, hold, exhale. Control the heart rate. Control the mind.His father's voice echoed in his memory: "Shooting isn't about the gun, son. It's about discipline. Control. The ability to stay calm when everything around you is chaos."Marcus had learned those lessons well. But he'd applied them to survival, not sport.At dawn, he pulled on running shoes and headed out. The city was just waking up delivery trucks rumbling past, early commuters hurrying to subway stations, homeless people huddled in doorways.Marcus ran until his lungs burned and his legs screamed. He ran pas

Marcus spent the next week looking for work.He filled out applications at every business he passed. Fast food restaurants. Warehouses. Retail stores. Construction sites. He answered honestly when they asked about his record lying would only make things worse if they found out.The responses were always the same."We'll call you." (They never did.)"We're not hiring right now." (The "Help Wanted" sign said otherwise.)"I'm sorry, but with your background..." (At least they were honest.)One manager at a grocery store looked him up on his phone, read the headlines from thirteen years ago, then literally stepped back as if Marcus might attack him."I can't have a murderer working here. Health code violation. Leave before I call the police."Marcus left.By the end of the week, he was down to eighty dollars. Rent was due in three weeks. He'd eaten nothing but ramen and crackers for days, rationing every penny.He applied for government assistance. The waiting list was three months long.

The outside world hit Marcus like a physical blow.Colors seemed too bright. Sounds too loud. The city had changed in ways he couldn't immediately process. Everyone stared at glowing rectangles in their hands, cars looked sleeker and quieter, buildings he remembered were gone or transformed into something unrecognizable.Uncle James waited by an old sedan, his hair completely gray now, his face lined with twelve years of worry. When their eyes met, the older man's composure crumbled."Marcus." His voice broke.They embraced, and Marcus felt his uncle's shoulders shake. For a moment, neither man spoke. Words felt inadequate for what had been stolen, for what could never be returned."I never stopped believing in you," Uncle James said finally, pulling back to look at Marcus properly. "Not for one day.""I know." Marcus's voice was rougher than he remembered, deepened by years of guarded silence. "You're the only one who came. Every month.""Your sister—""Don't." Marcus cut him off, ja