8.3: Shopping:

Madison was one of Amelia's best friends — he'd first met her back when he and Amelia were together. Back when Cornelius had been someone worth associating with rather than someone to be avoided.

She was the kind of woman who made "brunch" a personality trait. The kind of person who curated her Instagram feed with the obsessive attention most people reserved for their careers, and who had all kinds of opinions about other people's outfits and engagement rings — that she tended to share freely and without invitation.

In other words, Madison measured her worth in likes and followers and invitations to exclusive events, in being seen — in the right company, at the right restaurants and the right galleries and the right charity galas.

And now she stood there on the sidewalk, blocking their path like some... designer-clad obstacle, wearing a coat that probably cost at least three thousand dollars (it was camel-colored cashmere with a fur collar that was definitely real, not faux). Her blonde hair was perfectly styled despite the morning hour, blown out and curled in those careful waves that looked effortless but probably required an hour with a professional stylist or exceptional skill with hot tools. Her makeup, too, was flawless — contoured and highlighted with powder and spray, her lips a perfect matte pink, her eyebrows microbladed into symmetrical arches that looked almost painted on.

She looked like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine.

Like she'd woken up at 5 AM to look her best, specifically for this chance encounter.

Her expression morphed from surprise to something that looked horribly like glee as recognition settled in. A shark-smile that meant she'd found prey and intended to enjoy the meal.

"Oh my God, it is you!"

She stepped closer, her expensive boots clicking on the pavement (knee-high leather, probably Italian, definitely more than most people's monthly rent). Her eyes raked over him, taking in his faded jeans and rumpled button-down, clearly cataloging every detail for later gossip. Then her gaze shifted to Anya, who was now dressed in the new clothes from Target, and was clearly with Cornelius.

Madison's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline.

"I thought you'd be in prison by now," she said, her voice carrying a pitch of false concern that was really just cruelty wearing a mask of sympathy. "Didn't your sentencing already happen? I was sure I'd read about it in the Times. Or was it the Post? One of them definitely covered your trial."

"I haven't reported in yet," Cornelius said, keeping his voice carefully neutral, trying to project calm he didn't feel. His stomach had dropped the moment he'd heard her voice, a sick, twisting sensation like falling. "I still have a few more days of freedom."

"Mmm." The sound she made was knowing, judgmental, amused all at once. Her eyes shifted back to Anya, lingering with the kind of assessment that was designed to make its target feel small, inadequate. Lesser. She took in every detail: the discounted clothes, the "Target" shopping bags, the the bruise still visible on Anya's cheek despite fading, the backpack, the fact that she was clearly walking around with Cornelius early in the morning.

"And who's this?" Madison's smile sharpened further, showing teeth that were too white, too perfect. "Surely not—" She let out a little laugh that sounded like breaking glass, high and sharp and designed to cut. "Oh my God, you moved on fast. Like, impressively fast! I have to give you credit for that, at least."

"This is Anya," Cornelius said, trying to keep his tone even, professional, the way he'd speak to opposing counsel during a hostile deposition. He put a slight emphasis on the name, trying to establish her as a person rather than a prop in Madison's narrative. "Anya, this is Madison. She's—"

"A friend of your ex," Madison finished, her smile sharpening even further until it looked like it might actually hurt her face. "Amelia and I go way back, you see. College roommates, sorority sisters, maid of honor at each other's future weddings — or, well, my future wedding. Amelia's relationship plans have obviously changed."

She paused for effect, her eyes glittering with malice barely concealed behind a veneer of friendliness.

"We were just talking about you last week, actually. At the SoulCycle. Or was it the juice bar after? One of them, anyway. We were just chatting, and your name came up."

She said it like she was sharing something delightful, like this was fun gossip rather than the social equivalent of kicking someone while they were down.

"Amelia's doing amazing, by the way," Madison continued, her voice getting louder, drawing attention from other pedestrians. A few people slowed down, their New York instinct for drama overriding the usual pretense of not noticing other people's business.

"Completely moved on. She's seeing someone new already — Kyle Bridgewater. You know, that hedge fund guy? His family owns half of Greenwich. They look so good together. He took her to the Hamptons last weekend, and they're already talking about meeting each other's families!"

Each word was a carefully aimed dart, designed to hit soft tissue and stick.

"Not like you two, of course" Madison pressed on, warming to her topic now, clearly enjoying herself. "I mean, Amelia always said you were too... ambitious? Too willing to cut corners to get ahead. Too hungry for success. It always made her uncomfortable."

She tilted her head, mock-sympathy dripping from every word.

"You know, she told me once that she worried about your ethics. That she thought maybe you'd do anything to win, even if it crossed lines. Guess she was right to worry, huh?"

The words hit like physical blows, each one landing with precision that came from knowing exactly where to strike. Cornelius felt heat rising in his face, felt his hands clenching into fists at his sides, felt anger and shame and humiliation mixing together into something thick and choking in his throat.

"I never cut corners," he said quietly, but his voice came out tighter than he intended, defensive in a way that made him sound guilty even to his own ears. "I was set up. My boss pinned his crimes on me. Blackwood falsified those documents, and when it came out, he made me the scapegoat."

"Oh, but of course you'd say that!" Madison's voice was sickly sweet, condescending in the way that only people who'd never faced real consequences could be. "Everyone in prison says they're innocent, right? 'I didn't do it, I was framed, the system is corrupt.'"

She leaned in, still wearing that vicious smile.

"But the jury believed otherwise, didn't they? Twelve people looked at all the evidence and decided you were guilty. Isn't that right, Cornelius?"

She was getting louder now, her voice carrying across the sidewalk, drawing more attention. More people were slowing down, stopping, watching the scene unfold with the particular New York mix of pretending not to watch while absolutely watching.

Someone had their phone out, Cornelius noticed with a sinking feeling.

Probably just scrolling, probably not paying attention, but... maybe not. Maybe recording. That was how things went viral these days — someone caught a moment, posted it, and suddenly your worst day was entertainment for millions of people.

"And honestly, Cornelius," Madison continued, her voice dripping with false concern, "we all saw the signs. Those late nights at the office when you said you were working but nobody could verify what you were actually doing. The aggressive tactics in negotiations that made opposing counsel complain. The willingness to do anything to win, to bend the rules, to exploit any loophole."

She leaned in conspiratorially, though her voice stayed loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

"It was only a matter of time before it all caught up to you. Before you made a mistake and everyone saw what you were really like."

Cornelius could feel eyes on him now.

The morning pedestrians who'd slowed down to watch, to listen, to bear witness to someone else's humiliation.

The construction workers from the diner, standing outside now with their coffee and cigarettes, watching the show.

The elderly couple from the counter, paused on the sidewalk nearby.

A couple joggers had stopped, their breath visible in the cold air, probably telling themselves they were just catching their breath but clearly listening in on the drama.

His face felt hot despite the December cold, shame and anger burning through him in equal measures. This was what he'd been trying to avoid — exposure, attention, being recognized and judged in public by someone who'd already decided he was guilty.

"And now... here you are," Madison said, her eyes moving back to Anya with that same assessing, dismissive look, like she was evaluating livestock at a market and finding it wanting. "Spending your last few days of freedom with some..." She trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air, letting everyone fill in the blanks with whatever ugly assumptions they wanted to make.

"Well," Madison said with false brightness, her smile widening further, "I guess everyone processes impending incarceration differently. Some people make peace with their mistakes, take responsibility, try to make amends. Others? Well... I guess people like you just try to get laid before lockup. To each their own, right?"

The words hung in the air like a slap.

Cornelius felt his face flush hotter, felt his hands clench tighter, felt words rising in his throat— defensive words, angry words, words that would just make everything worse because engaging with her would mean playing her game, and she was much better at this particular game than he was.

But before he could formulate a response, before he could decide whether to engage or walk away or try to defuse the situation somehow...

Anya moved.

She stepped forward decisively, closing the distance between herself and Madison in two quick strides, her body language shifting from uncertain girl-out-of-her-depth to something harder.

More dangerous.

"You should really just accept that you're a failure, Cornelius," Madison continued, her attention still on him, not noticing — or disregarding — Anya's approach. "A criminal. Someone who—"

The punch came hard and fast.

One moment, Madison was mid-sentence, her perfectly made-up face twisted in malicious satisfaction.

The next, Anya's fist connected with her jaw with a solid, meaty crack that echoed across the sidewalk like a branch snapping beneath a boot.

It was a good punch: not some wild or flailing girly punch, but a controlled and precise blow — the kind of no-nonsense move that came from actual fighting experience. Anya had put her whole body into it, had rotated her hips and shoulders. Had followed through properly.

And it was quite effective.

Madison's head snapped back with the force of it, her neck whipping in a way that looked painful, possibly even dangerous. Her eyes went wide — shock, pain, disbelief all registering in the split-second before consciousness left her. Her pupils dilated. Her mouth opened in a silent 'O' of surprise.

Then her eyes rolled up, showing whites, and her knees buckled.

She collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, hitting the pavement in an ungainly heap of expensive cashmere and designer leather. Her perfect hair splayed across the concrete. Her designer bag spilled its contents across the sidewalk (phone, wallet, makeup compact, keys, a tangle of charging cables, receipts, tampons, a prescription bottle... all the intimate detritus of her life suddenly exposed to the world.

Silence.

Complete, absolute silence fell over the sidewalk like someone had hit a pause button on the entire world.

Everyone froze — the construction workers, the elderly couple, the joggers, the morning commuters. Everyone just stood there, staring at the unconscious woman on the ground and the small, unassuming girl who'd just knocked her out with one punch.

Anya shook out her hand, flexing her fingers, checking for injury.

"She was attacking you," she said simply, as if that explained everything. As if the cause-and-effect chain was obvious and needed no further elaboration. "Couldn't just stand there and let her do that. Where I'm from, you don't let people mouth off at people you're with. You defend them."

Cornelius stared.

At Madison, unconscious on the ground, her chest rising and falling shallowly, a red mark already darkening on her jaw where Anya's fist had connected. At Anya, calm and matter-of-fact, no guilt or uncertainty in her expression.

At the growing crowd of witnesses, some of them with phones of their own — out likely and recording everything.

"Oh shit," he said, his brain finally catching up to what had just happened. "Oh shit. Anya, we need to go. Right now."

"But I—"

"Punching someone in Manhattan is assault," Cornelius said urgently, grabbing her arm and pulling her into motion, already scanning for escape routes. "They'll call the cops — that's what we call the lawmen here. Actually, someone probably already are calling the cops. We need to be gone before they get here."

"But she was—"

He was pulling her forward now, moving fast but not running because running would draw even more attention and would look unambiguously guilty.

"Walk fast. Don't run. Running looks guilty. Just walk like we have somewhere to be."

Behind them, he could hear people gathering around Madison, could hear someone saying "—call an ambulance—" and someone else saying "—did you see that? Hoooly shit—" and someone else saying "—got it on video, the whole thing—"

They turned a corner.

Then another.

Putting distance between themselves and the scene, weaving through the morning pedestrians who were still oblivious to what had just happened one block over.

After three blocks, Cornelius pulled Anya into an alley — one of those narrow passages between buildings that smelled of garbage and old urine and city decay, but offered concealment from the street.

Both of them were breathing hard, adrenaline making everything feel sharp and immediate.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Cornelius hissed, but there was no real anger in his voice. Just shock. Bewilderment. And underneath it, something that might have been gratitude or a delayed realization that someone had defended him.

"She was attacking you!" Anya shot back, her eyes fierce, her body still coiled with that ready-to-fight tension. "Maybe not with a weapon, but she was trying to hurt you. Trying to make you feel small and ashamed and worthless! Where I'm from, you don't just stand there and take that. You defend yourself! You defend people you're—" She stopped, seeming to catch herself. "You... defend people you're with. That's just what you do."

Cornelius couldn't help it. He laughed — a short, sharp sound of pure disbelief and, quite possibly, hysteria.

"You knocked her out! You knocked out one of the most socially connected women in Manhattan's social scene. Someone who probably knows people who can make this a serious legal problem."

"Was I supposed to just let her say those things?" Anya's voice rose, frustration and confusion mixing together. "Let her call you a criminal and a failure when you're just trying to save people? When you're using everything you have to help people who are dying? She was lying! You're not a failure! You're better than her. You're worth a thousand of her!"

Something in Cornelius's chest felt suddenly warm, too warm, like something had cracked open and heat was spilling out.

When was the last time someone had defended him?

His boss had thrown him under the bus to save himself. His father had disowned him to protect his political career. Amelia had left because being associated with him was inconvenient. His coworkers had scattered the moment scandal touched him, treating him like he was contagious.

And Anya — a stranger who'd known him for less than a day — had punched someone for insulting him.

"Thank you," he said quietly, and found that his voice was rough. "That was... you really didn't have to do that. But thank you."

"Yeah, well. Ain't nobody's going to talks shit about people I'm with. Not when I'm standin' right there!" She paused, shifting her weight uncomfortably. "We really got to leave? Like leave-leave? 'Cause of the punching?"

"...Yeah. Before the cops track us down through witnesses. Or through..." He paused, remembering. "Fuck. People had their phones out. Did you see that? Someone probably recorded the whole conversation. Which means there's video — those moving pictures we saw earlier — of you punching her. There's a record of it now."

"So?"

"So that video is probably already being uploaded somewhere! Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, YouTube... wherever people post videos of crazy shit that happens in public. This is exactly the kind of thing that goes viral — random girl knocks out Manhattan socialite in one punch. It'll probably be everywhere by lunch."

Even as he said it, he could imagine the headlines, the social media posts, the Reddit threads. "WOMAN KNOCKED OUT IN MANHATTAN STREET FIGHT." "SOCIALITE GETS DECKED AFTER CONFRONTING COUPLE." "WHEN VERBAL ALTERCATIONS GO WRONG."

And Madison had friends.

Madison had connections.

Madison probably knew lawyers who'd salivate at the chance to sue over something like this.

"Your world is so fucking weird," Anya muttered. "You can't defend people but you can say whatever cruel shit you want? That's backwards."

"Can't argue with that."

Cornelius checked his watch—9:17 AM. They were supposed to be at the warehouse at 11. They still had time to rent that truck... assuming nobody arrested them first.

"Come on. Let's go get the truck, and start picking up that food."

They emerged from the alley and started walking again, faster now, moving with purpose through the Manhattan morning. Cornelius kept his head down, avoided eye contact, tried to project "just another person with somewhere to be" rather than "fleeing a crime scene."

Cornelius's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, still walking, and saw a notification from Twitter — trending topic: #ManhattanKnockout.

"Oh God," he muttered. "It's already starting."

"What is?"

"The video. People are sharing it. It's trending."

He opened Twitter despite knowing it was a bad idea, and immediately saw the video, posted from an account called @UrbanWilderness with the caption: "HOLY SHIT just watched this girl DECK some woman after she was being a total bitch. ONE PUNCH. #ManhattanKnockout #InstantKarma #punchgirl"

The video had been posted eleven minutes ago. It already had close to 4,000 views. The comments were rolling in:

"She had it coming lmao"

"Talk shit get hit"

"That form tho! Girl knows how punch"

"Anyone know who that blonde lady is? She's terrible!"

"Is this fake? That punch looks too perfect"

"GUYS I FOUND MY WIFE! WHAT'S HER @ THO? PUNCH GIRL I LUV U!!!"

Cornelius closed Twitter before he could read more. "We... need to move faster."

They picked up their pace, not quite running but close to it, weaving through pedestrians with the focused urgency of people who had somewhere very important to be and couldn't afford delays.

Cornelius quickly called an Uber and the duo got in, headed for one of the truck rental centers.

"Okay," he whispered to her as they sat in the back seat. "New plan. Well, same plan, but faster and with more paranoia. We get the truck, get the food, and get the hell back to the March before anyone can arrest us."

Anya laughed — a real laugh, slightly manic, the sound of someone whose day had gone completely off the rails but who'd decided to just roll with it. "Your world is crazy, Cornelius Vance. You know that, right? Completely crazy!"

"Yeah," Cornelius agreed, pulling out his phone to start calling the truck rental place to make sure they had what was needed. "Yeah, I know."

Outside the car window, the streets went by in a blur. New York continued its normal morning routine, completely oblivious to the fact that two of its temporary residents had just committed assault, gone viral, and were now planning to flee to another dimension with truck full of bulk food products.

Just another day in the Big Apple.