Jagger's jaw is locked.I can see the tension running through him, the effort it's taking to stand there and do nothing.His eyes flick to mine for one second and then away.A warning: stay controlled.
The muzzle’s jammed into bone.For a fraction of a second I cling to that—contact shots can misfire.If he eases back even an inch, Jagger’s done.
"I understand," I say.My voice doesn't shake.I won't let it shake.
"Good.Two hours.Let's go."
The gun stays exactly where it is.
I don't look up at them.Not yet.
My hands move into the calibration routine, measuring the printer settings, adjusting the color balance with mechanical precision.The equipment is high-end—someone knew exactly what to order, someone who'd done this before.I can feel Marquez behind Jagger, feel the weight of the barrel against his temple, feel the enforcer's dead-eyed stare from his position against the wall.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley...
I keep the words moving through my mind like a current, steady and deliberate.Not prayer, just rhythm, just the thing that keeps my hands from shaking, just the thing that keeps me from looking at Jagger's face.
I will fear no evil.
If my work doesn't hold up to scrutiny, if Dr.Patel spots even one flaw, one tiny inconsistency, then I'm not who I said I was, and Jagger's not who he said he was, and Marquez will pull the trigger.
I load the first sheet.
The printer hums to life, and I start thinking about the details nobody notices until it's too late—the microprinting along the edge, each letter microscopic but perfect; Dr.Landry's DEA number, formatted to the exact specification; the embossing that has to sit at precisely the right depth, not a tenth of a millimeter off; the holographic overlay sealed at exactly the correct temperature, or it fractures under UV light like a broken promise.
I don't look at Jagger.
The first sheet emerges.
I hold it up to the light, checking the watermark against the angle.My peripheral vision screams at me to turn around, to see if his jaw is clenched, if his eyes are closed, if he's afraid—if Marquez has gotten tired and dropped his arm.I don't do it.
For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.
Forty minutes in, I reach for the UV pen.The microprinting requires absolute stillness, absolute focus.I can feel Jagger somewhere behind me like a weight I can't afford to acknowledge.
I work methodically.Each letter forms under the UV pen, invisible to the naked eye until you know to look for it.The embossing tool presses into the paper, and the vibration travels up my arm, small and certain.I don't look up.Don't acknowledge the presence at my back.Don't check Jagger's face.
Eighty minutes gone.
The holographic overlay goes on last, sealed with the laminator.I peel it back slowly, checking for air bubbles, for imperfections, for anything that would scream fake under scrutiny.My vision has narrowed to just this—the pad, the overlay, the microscopic space between them.Everything else falls away because it has to.Because if I feel it, I can't do it.
There.A bubble, impossibly small, right at the edge of Landry's DEA number.I could leave it.Nobody would notice unless they were really looking.But Patel will be looking.Patel will have eyes like a surgeon's, and this pad will go through his hands like a diagnosis.
I peel it back up, carefully, so carefully, and smooth it down again.The bubble disperses.Gone.
One hour and thirty-eight minutes.
I step back, and the world comes back into focus—the concrete room, the hum of equipment, the men waiting, the gun still pressed against Jagger's head.The prescription pad sits on the table, crisp and professional and completely, utterly indistinguishable from the real thing.
"Done," I say, and the word feels like stepping off a cliff.
Marquez moves first, his boots heavy on the concrete.He gestures with his gun to Dr.Patel with a lazy flick of his wrist, then aims at Jagger again."Your turn, Doc."
Patel approaches like a man walking to his own execution.His hands stay buried in his pockets until the last possible second.When he stops at the table, his fingers emerge, trembling slightly, as he pulls on reading glasses.
He holds the pad up to the light, and the moment stretches thin as wire.He runs his thumb over the embossing, testing the depth—feeling for the exact texture that separates real from fake.Then he pulls a small UV flashlight from his jacket pocket and shines it across the paper, checking for the security features that should be invisible to the naked eye but devastatingly obvious once you know they're there.
He tilts the pad, and the light catches something—a spot where the microprinting might be slightly off, or might be exactly right depending on the angle.His jaw tightens.He moves the flashlight closer.
