Shadow of Saul

Chapter 2: Dire Straits.

Daniella looked at the signed papers, then at his face.

She couldn't believe it.

She had honestly expected Saul to protest more to divorcing her. The fact that he refused to take the money also confused her.

For a second, a flicker of regret washed through her chest, her perfect features twisting with something close to hurt, her lips opening like she wanted to say more.

Saul's breath hitched as he watched her struggle with herself, traitorous hope rising in his chest.

But then Ephraim placed a hand on her shoulder, a possessive, claiming gesture that sent a shiver down Saul's spine.

And his ex wife stiffened, her eyes widening before her face smoothed into a serene blankness.

“Thank you, Saul." 

She said quietly before turning her back on him and letting the other man lead her into that car.

"Come-on let’s go darling," Ephraim said, tossing a mocking salute at Saul. "Good luck with your pathetic life."

Saul barely even had the energy to glare at him.

In no time,.the Mercedes roared to life and sped away, leaving Saul standing alone in the cloud of dust, the silence of the evening settling around him like a shroud.

He didn't know how long he stood there for, the adrenaline of the confrontation fading into a dull, hollow ache. It was the kind of ache that settled deep in your bones, the kind that money couldn't fix, but sure as hell could have prevented.

He tried his best to be stoic about this, tried to keep his dignity and not despair like his heart was telling him to, but dignity didn't pay the bills, did it? Or keep a woman by your side.

He looked down at his hands. Dirty. Empty.

Money, he thought, a bitter taste rising in his mouth. It all comes down to money. If I worked in a boardroom instead of a construction site, would she have left? Would he be standing here, feeling the weight of his failure settle over him like a tombstone?

He knew the answer, and it stung worse than any physical blow.

His hand brushed against his pocket, feeling the hard edge of the card Kim had forced on him. 

The black card that was supposed to have a billion credits in it.

It sounded like a fairy tale, the kind of delusion a desperate mind concocts. 

A last-ditch effort to cling to hope when all seemed lost.

But Daniella was gone. He had no home to go back to, her mother and sister would see to that even if Daniella didn't chase him off immediately. 

The thought of facing Michaela and Clara Marion after all of this made his stomach churn.

He had nothing. 

Absolutely nothing to lose.

"Check the balance," Kim had said, her voice echoing in his memory.

Saul let out a ragged breath. "Why the hell not?"

He washed up as best he could at the site, scrubbing the grime from under his fingernails, trying to wash away the feeling of inadequacy that clung to him like the dust. He changed into his street clothes, a worn t-shirt and jeans that had seen better days, clothes that screamed "working class" in a city obsessed with labels.

He walked the six blocks to the city center, where the glass towers of finance loomed over the streets, monuments to a world he'd never truly belonged to. The air grew colder, sharper, the scent of exhaust fumes mingling with the faint, expensive perfume drifting from the boutiques.

He stopped in front of the Imperial Bank. It was a fortress of marble and gold, the kind of place that smelled of old money and silent judgment. The kind of place where people like him were usually turned away at the door.

He was just reaching for the heavy glass door when a screeching voice cut through the evening traffic, a sound that made his teeth clench.

"Oh my god, look! It’s the stray!"

Saul flinched. He knew that voice. It was the sound of his nightmares, the sound of constant belittlement and thinly veiled contempt.

Standing near the ATM vestibule were Michaela Marion, Daniella’s mother, and Clara Marion, her younger sister. They were laden with shopping bags from high-end boutiques, the logos screaming their worth, dressed in loud, flashy prints that screamed 'new money' trying desperately to look old.

Mrs. Marion marched over, her nose wrinkled as if she smelled something rotting. "I just got a text from Daniella. She finally did it. She finally flushed you."

"Good riddance," Clara chimed in, popping a bubble of gum. She looked Saul up and down with a sneer that could curdle milk. "Mom was worried you’d try to squat at the house. You need to come get your junk tonight. Whatever is left on the curb tomorrow morning goes to the garbage truck."

"I’ll get my things after I'm done here, I promise," Saul said, his voice low, trying to keep the anger from boiling over.

He tried to step around them toward the bank entrance, but Michaela blocked his path.

Michaela stepped in his path, her eyes narrowing. "Where do you think you’re going? The soup kitchen is three blocks that way. This is a bank."

"I have business here," Saul said, his jaw tight.

"Business?" Michaela let out a harsh, barking laugh that echoed off the marble facade. "What business? Begging for a loan? Trying to cash that pity check Daniella offered you? I told her not to give you a dime."

Her eyes, sharp and greedy as a magpie’s, suddenly dropped to Saul’s hand. He was holding the velvet pouch Kim had given him, fiddling with it nervously. The drawstring was loose, and the ring had slipped out, glinting in the evening light.

It was a heavy band of dark, ancient metal, set with a stone that seemed to swallow the light around it.

Old as it was, It was beautiful and clearly expensive.

Michaela gasped, her eyes widening with a mixture of confusion and avarice. "What is that?"

Before Saul could react, she lunged forward, grabbing his wrist with a grip like a vice. "That’s jewelry! Where did you get that? You can't afford a ring like that!"

"Let go," Saul warned, trying to pull his hand back. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

"You stole it!" Michaela shrieked, her eyes wide with accusation. "You stole it from Daniella! That must be an heirloom! Give it back, you thief!"

"It’s mine!" Saul snapped, his patience finally snapping. He yanked his arm back, a simple reflex to break her hold.

Michaela, who was top-heavy with shopping bags and balanced precariously on heels she couldn't walk in, lost her footing. She stumbled back, flailed her arms, and sat down hard on the polished pavement with a thud that echoed through the square.

For a second, there was stunned silence. Then, the theatrics began.

"Ah! My hip! He broke my hip!" Michaela wailed, sprawling out like a soccer player faking an injury. "Help! Assault! He’s trying to kill me!"

"You animal!" Clara screamed, pointing a manicured finger at Saul. "Security! Help! This bum just attacked my mother!"

The bank doors burst open.

Two security guards, thick-necked and imposing in tactical vests, rushed out, their eyes scanning the scene.

"What’s the problem here?" the lead guard barked, his hand resting on his baton. He looked like he was itching for a fight.

"Him!" Clara shouted, playing the victim perfectly. "He was trying to rob us! My mother caught him stealing, and he shoved her down! Look at him, he’s a dangerous lunatic!"

The guard turned to Saul, his eyes narrowing. He saw the worn jeans, the construction dust still clinging to his hair, the cheap shoes. Then he looked at the well-dressed women with the expensive shopping bags, one of whom was dramatically clutching her hip on the ground.

The bias was instant, palpable.

"Sir, back away," the guard ordered, stepping close to Saul. "Get on the ground. Now."

"I didn't touch her," Saul said, holding his ground, his anger simmering. "She tried to grab my property and she fell."

"Liar!" Michaela moaned from the ground, pausing a few seconds to check her reflection in a shop window to make sure she looked sufficiently distressed before continuing. "He’s a thief! He has no business here! Arrest him!"

Clara stepped forward, flashing a card from her purse with a smug smile. "We are clients here! My sister's fiancée, Ephraim Moore, got us this account. This man is a nobody."

She waved a bronze-colored card in the guard's face. "Do you see this? This is a Bronze Card. You know the requirements. One million in deposits. We belong here. He belongs in a cell."

The guard nodded respectfully at the card, his demeanor shifting slightly. "I understand, Ma'am. We’ll handle this trash." He turned back to Saul, sneering. "You heard the lady. This is a high-end establishment. Bronze cards need a million. Silver needs five. You? You look like you need a good lawyer after I call the police on you."

"Get him out of here before you do," Michaela spat, miraculously recovering enough to sit up and glare. "He’s polluting the air."

"Yeah," Clara laughed, cruel and high-pitched. "Show us your card first, if you even have one, let's see how fake it really is."

Saul looked at them, at the guards ready to strong-arm him, at Daniella’s family, who had treated him like dirt for three years. 

The injustice of it all, the sheer arrogance and entitlement, finally pushed him over the edge.

Something in him snapped. 

Not a violent snap, but a cold, hard crystallization of resolve. 

He was done being pushed around.

"You want to see a card?" Saul asked softly, his voice dangerously calm.

He reached into his pocket. 

The movement was slow, deliberate, each second stretching out like an eternity. 

The guards tensed, expecting a weapon, their hands tightening on their batons.

Instead, Saul pulled out the sliver of matte black metal.

"I don't have a Bronze card," he said, his voice carrying over the street noise, cutting through the evening din. "I was told I have this one."

He held it up, letting the streetlights catch the golden direwolf embossed on the black surface.

The lead guard froze, squinting, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Then his eyes widened, but not in recognition, more in disbelief. "What is that, some kind of joke?" he scoffed. "You think you can fool us into believing that piece of plastic is a black card?"

"Yeah, right," the other guard chimed in, snorting with laughter. "Nice try, buddy. Now get out of here before we arrest you for loitering and fraud."

Clara scoffed, rolling her eyes. "You tried to fake a black card, Saul? How pathetic."

Michaela, still feigning injury, chimed in, "Don't waste your time with him. He's clearly delusional. Just get him out of here."

Saul's grip tightened on the card, his knuckles turning white. 

He could feel the anger building inside him, threatening to explode. 

But he managed to reign it in, forcing himself to remain calm.

"I’m telling the truth,” Saul said through gritted teeth, "This is not a fucking joke!"

The lead guard stepped forward, grabbing Saul's wrist roughly. "Alright, pal, that's enough. I'm giving you one last chance to leave before I call the police."

Saul didn't flinch. He met the guard's gaze, his eyes nearly feral. "I'm not going anywhere!" he hissed. "I have business to conduct inside this bank and I'm not leaving until I do so."

The guard's face hardened. "Fine," he spat, "you asked for it!" He raised his baton, ready to strike.

But before he could swing, a voice boomed from behind them.

"What in God's name is going on here?"