The door bangs open and in strides Cross.

The apartment's living room is even more decrepit than the building's exterior. Save for the high-end consumer electronics on display. Some low-budget action movie plays on the giant flat-screen television. The man sitting on the threadbare couch watching said TV was nodding off just a moment before.

He's wide awake now, though. On his feet in a flash, looking awkward with his right arm in a cast. Somehow, he's even more haggard than his surroundings.

"Oh no," is all he manages to moan. And then the Burned Man is in his face.

"What's wrong, Ray? Not happy to see me?" Cross asks, sneering. It's clearly a rhetorical question.

"Listen man, I..."

"You know what day it is right?"

"Y-yeah..."

"Same day as last month, right?"

"Yeah, sure..."

"And what happened last month?"

"You..."

Cross grabs Ray's left arm, his good one, the one not in a cast, and the man almost screams. His brown eyes bug out of his head.

"I what?"

"You broke my fucking arm, man."

"No I didn't."

"Yes y--"

"No, Ray. I didn't. You did."

"I--" He would look incredulous. If he wasn't so scared.

"You. You broke your own arm. Because you didn't have my money." Those flat, blue eyes never leave Ray's face. "You gonna make the same mistake, Ray?"

"N-no. No, sir. I got your money. I swear." Ray's face is suddenly drenched in sweat.

"Good, Ray. Good. You're learning." The Burned Man shoves the Breather away from him. "Now go get it."

When Cross leaves for his next stop, he doesn't shut the door. In his jacket pocket is an envelope filled with his cut of Ray's 'business.' And he's almost smiling.

Almost.