Jase slipped out of his house, the weight of guilt still clinging to him. He returned to the shop, carefully placed the wallet back on the counter, and turned to leave—only to slam straight into McLarence.
Time seemed to freeze.
The street noise dulled. Cars crawled. His heartbeat thumped louder than the world around him.
McLarence's fist flew.Jase staggered back, and before he could react, a cold barrel pressed against his forehead.
"Who sent you?" McLarence growled.
"N-Nobody! Please…" Jase stammered.
A sharp blow to the temple sent him collapsing into darkness.
He woke up slumped on a chair. His arms were bound, vision blurry. The air reeked of smoke and old iron. Somewhere in the shadows, a click—the sound of a lighter flicking.
"How are you, bro?" McLarence asked casually, a cigarette glowing at his lips.
Jase, still dazed, saw something on the table—powder, a scale, baggies. His voice cracked with fear.
"Please… let me go. I wasn't trying to steal. I was going to return it—I felt bad…"
"Shut the fuck up," McLarence snapped. "Did I ask if you regretted it? I don't care about your life."
A door creaked open. Trevis stepped in, fixing his suit, his presence commanding.
"Ever smoked before?" he asked.
"I'm fifteen…" Jase replied.
"So?" Trevis sneered. "Wanna try before you die?"
"No the fuck—!" Jase cut himself off, trembling.
Trevis raised an eyebrow and chuckled.
"We weren't gonna kill you," he said, raising his gun slowly. "But thanks to you, we lost a client. Prevention's better than cure."
"Wait—what do you mean?" Jase asked, trying not to wet himself.
"We can't risk you talking," Trevis said, aiming the gun.
In panic, Jase blurted:
"Don't kill me! I—I can help! I can produce drugs! Just don't shoot!"
A moment passed. Then both men burst into laughter.
"This kid's got jokes," McLarence chuckled.
He leaned toward Trevis and whispered, "He's smart. Maybe useful."
Trevis nodded.
"You said you could help. How?"
"I can make drugs," Jase replied.
"You better not be bluffing," Trevis said. "We'll test you. McLarence, untie him. I'll be back."
Trevis left. McLarence pulled out his phone and slumped into the chair Jase had been tied to.
"What now?" Jase asked.
McLarence ignored him, texting several girls at once—each message ending with "I love you." Jase watched silently, confused.
"He's got a whole harem," Jase thought. "Damn… maybe this life isn't that bad."
"Why aren't you blocking the door?" Jase asked.
McLarence showed him the gun.
"This is the only lock I need."
The room was silent, save for message notifications and McLarence typing away. Then came footsteps—Trevis returned holding a box.
"Inside's the gear and recipe. You'll give us the goods tomorrow at 7:15 a.m. sharp."
He handed Jase a small device.
"What's this?" Jase asked.
"An ankle bracelet. If you don't show up on time—or try to run—it explodes. Oh, and don't be surprised if our guys show up at your house anyway."
He turned to McLarence.
"Watch him."
McLarence motioned for Jase to follow. They stepped into the night, and the world changed.
The alley outside oozed with metallic stench and human filth. Jase's eyes widened at what he saw: sex workers leaning on walls, strange machines used to stimulate both men and women, a strip club buzzing with distorted music, and—bizarrely—people placing bets on sperm races.
Jase gagged. He caught glimpses of organ sales at a black market booth. His steps faltered.
Eventually, they emerged at the front of Franky's shop, lit in flickering neon, Franky was watching a movie and saluted McLarence by a movement of the head
.
"You know your way home?" McLarence asked.
"No…"
"Of course you don't," McLarence muttered and walked him home.
Before Jase entered his house, he hesitated.
"What time is it?" he asked.
No response.
Jase tucked the box near the kitchen entrance—easier to sneak into his room later. He opened the living room door and froze.
His father sat waiting. Pajamas on. The room's holographic clock read: 10:00 PM.
"Where were you?" his father asked calmly.
"Erm… I was…" Jase scratched his head.
His father stood up, walked toward his room, and muttered:
"Your food is cold."
The door shut behind him.
Jase entered his room, exhaled, and began counting his fingers:
Thumb, pinky (once).
Ring and index (twice).
Middle finger (five times).
Again. Again. Again.
"Here's no good," he thought. "Dad checks often."
Then he smiled.
"The cave."
He descended quietly, pressed his fingerprint scanner. The heavy door unlocked.
Dust. Cobwebs. Silence.
Jase reached behind a shelf and pulled out a sheet that shimmered like sunlight—a blank checklist.
He opened the box, read the recipe, then pulled out his phone to calculate the duration.
"All night," he whispered.
Then, unexpectedly… he smiled.
"Time to work."