Marvel: Empire of Power

The stale scent of boiled cabbage and cheap pipe tobacco clung to the air in the cramped hallway of the tenement on Rue Sainte-Catherine. Elias Thorne, sixteen years of age and owner of this building, along with six others scattered across Montreal's working-class districts, wrinkled his nose subtly. He held his leather-bound ledger tighter under one arm, the other hand deep in the pocket of his wool trousers, fingers brushing against a reassuringly thick roll of banknotes. It was Tuesday, rent day, and the depression gripping the world outside these damp walls had made his tenants perpetually short and commensurately resentful.

"Mr. Dubois," Elias said, his voice remarkably even and pitched low for his age, a practiced calm he'd cultivated since his parents' untimely deaths three years prior had thrust him into this role. He stood before a door whose paint was flaking like sunburnt skin. "The rent, if you please."

A shuffling sound from within, then the click of a latch. The door creaked open a sliver, revealing one rheumy eye and a whiff of something far less pleasant than cabbage. "Mr. Thorne. Already? The week's just begun."

"And last week has ended, Mr. Dubois," Elias replied, his gaze unwavering. He wasn't unkind, not truly, but he'd learned early that sentimentality was a currency neither he nor his tenants could afford. His father, a shrewd if occasionally over-leveraged businessman, had drilled into him the realities of capital, property, and the unforgiving nature of ledgers. "The agreement stands. Thirty dollars, due the first Tuesday."

The eye blinked. A grumble. "The mill's cut hours again, young sir. It's... difficult."

Elias maintained his patient, almost unnervingly placid expression. "I understand hardship, Mr. Dubois. Many do, these days. However, the building has its own costs. Coal for the furnace, repairs... I trust you understand my position." He let a sliver of the ice that lived permanently in his core touch his tone. He wasn't a charity, though sometimes he felt like the city's unwilling benefactor.

A sigh, heavy and defeated, gusted through the crack. The door opened a fraction wider, and a gnarled hand thrust out a collection of crumpled bills and coins. Elias took them, his slender fingers surprisingly adept at quickly counting the disparate currency. He noted it was three dollars short.

"We are short, Mr. Dubois."

"Best I can do, Mr. Thorne. On my oath."

Elias's gaze flickered to the worn-out shoes visible by the door, the thinness of the fabric on the trousers Dubois wore. He could press. He should press; it was the sensible, financially sound thing to do. His father would have. But Elias also saw the hollows in the man's cheeks, a quiet desperation he'd seen too often.

"Very well," Elias said, making a swift notation in his ledger with a fountain pen. "The remainder will be added to next week's due. Do try to be prompt, Mr. Dubois. Good day." He didn't wait for a reply, already turning towards the next door, the rhythm of this life – collection, accounting, terse negotiations – so ingrained it felt like breathing.