Chapter 2: Death in the Market

Just as I finished stuffing the plastic bottles I’d collected into a battered duffel bag, someone called out behind me. The wind whistled down the alley as I turned, shifting my weight on sore feet. I was used to being invisible—people in pressed suits and shiny shoes never even glanced my way—but this guy was different. Young, probably mid-twenties, bleached hair, a hoodie worth more than my rent. His phone pointed at me like a weapon.

"Hey, ma’am! Here’s a hundred bucks—go wild, get whatever you want. I’ll cover it, promise."

A trendy-looking guy hid the disdain in his eyes as he pointed his phone camera at me. I caught the flash of judgment—a look I knew too well from social workers and grocery store clerks. He flicked the camera toward me, eyes darting between me and the chat, searching for the best angle.

Seeing my confusion, he pulled out a crisp bill and shoved it into my hand. "I’m a livestreamer. Take the money, buy whatever you want."

I gripped the money tightly and squinted at his phone screen.

"Finally streaming again. Can’t go a day without ChaseLive."

"ChaseLive is actually helping people. Thumbs up."

"Damn, she looks like she’s been through hell. Hope this cash helps her out."

The chat scrolled by, the number of viewers ticking past a hundred thousand. It felt strange—so many eyes on me, judging every rip in my jacket. I tucked the bill into my coat, feeling it crinkle next to an old grocery list. I nodded at the streamer, ChaseLive.

So many witnesses—that’s enough.

ChaseLive fell in beside me, voice slick and practiced as he addressed the camera. He adjusted his snapback and grinned. "Folks, I’ve been running this hundred-dollar street charity for a year now. All thanks to your support, I’ve made it this far. Rest assured, everyone I pick is truly in need. A hundred bucks may not be much, but it can help. You can call me cheap, but I sleep fine at night."

A flood of little hearts and cartoon coins danced across the screen. He waved at the camera, basking in the attention. "Today’s lady looks about sixty. At her age, still scavenging, relying on scraps. Let’s see what she can buy with this hundred bucks."

He leaned in, lowering his voice for the chat. "Ma’am, where’s your family? How can they let you scavenge at your age?"

I answered flatly, my voice wrapped in old pain. "My family’s all gone."

ChaseLive sighed and shook his head, but his eyes flicked to the viewer count. "Geez, she really has it tough. If you need anything, just tell me. I won’t hesitate to help."

I turned and looked at him, letting the silence stretch. He shifted, uncomfortable. "Ma’am, what’s wrong?"

I curled my lips in a gentle smile. "No need, you’re already helping me."

We walked through the market, past battered trucks and folding tables stacked with fruit, the air thick with grilled onions and car exhaust. The stand I stopped at was wedged between a taco truck and a thrift shop, its faded awning flapping in the breeze. A woman my age glanced at me, her hands stained from berries.

"What do you want to buy?"

I pointed at a bundle of sugarcane. She looked me up and down, her tone sharp. "Thirteen bucks for a stick. You got cash on you?"

I waved the hundred-dollar bill. Only then did she slowly grab a stick of sugarcane to peel.

The comments rolled in:

"She finally gets some money and just wants something sweet."

"No way, this stand’s shady. Sugarcane shouldn’t be more than eight bucks."

"She even picked the oldest one. Streamer, remind her!"

ChaseLive shrugged for the camera. "Folks, my rule is to give the money, not intervene."

After the owner finished peeling the cane, I saw it was dry, parts inside black. She chopped the cane, bagged it, and came for payment. I pushed my hair back as the wind whipped it into my face, tasting the dust and sweetness in the air. Under her surprised gaze, I held up two more fingers.

"Give me two more."

The owner’s eyes gleamed as she hurried to peel two more. The chat blew up:

"Is she senile? Can’t she tell she’s being given bad sugarcane?"

"She’s buying so much, can she even finish it?"

"Others save up, she spends it all at once."

ChaseLive watched, the corners of his mouth lifting—controversy meant traffic. Soon, tens of thousands more joined the stream.

The owner finished the last two canes and handed me the bags. A gust of wind swept through, dust and plastic swirling. She reached up to rub her eyes—

A dull thud. Warm blood splattered across my face. I didn’t move. Not even when the blood hit my cheek. My heart beat steady—like I’d been waiting for this.

She collapsed, her head cracked open by a brick that fell from above.

For a split second, the world went silent—then the screaming started. People surged forward, then back, hands over mouths. Phones went up, recording. The air was thick with the scent of blood and sweat. ChaseLive stared, gripping his phone, the camera fixed on the woman’s body, knuckles white.

The chat exploded:

"Oh my god!"

"Someone died? Is this for real?"

"No way, live death on stream!"

A vendor called for an ambulance and the police. Sirens wailed, and EMTs arrived, shaking their heads. The police took notes and cleared the crowd. When everything was over, ChaseLive’s face was electric—he’d gone viral. The livestream’s popularity soared.

He turned to the camera: "Everyone, we just witnessed a death right here. Tomorrow or an accident—you never know which will come first. But our agreement with this lady still stands, so the stream continues. Let’s move on."

He smiled at me, the disgust gone. I was now his cash cow. I kept walking, glancing at the comments:

"Why do I feel like this lady killed the fruit stand owner?"

"If she’d bought one less, the owner wouldn’t have been at the cutter."

"That owner was a scammer—good riddance!"

Looking at the comments, I sneered inwardly. They hid behind screens, judging, never lifting a finger to help. Their character was no nobler than the fruit stand owner’s.

I stopped at the entrance to a cheap men’s clothing shop. The window was plastered with faded flyers for lost pets and a neon ‘OPEN’ sign that buzzed like a wasp. I picked up a red tie for ten bucks and gave it a hard tug, nodding. After paying, I handed it to ChaseLive.

"Here, this is for you."

He fingered the polyester fabric, searching for words. For a moment, he looked almost grateful.

The chat lit up:

"She’s so kind!"

"First time someone bought something for the streamer!"

"Streamer, this is her goodwill. Just accept it!"

ChaseLive smiled and put the tie on, fumbling with the knot. I smiled as I watched him, the cheap tie bright against his hoodie. I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked into the sunlight, the camera still watching. Let them wonder.