Tall. Maybe twenty-two. Shaved head. Tattoos creeping up his neck like ivy; one of the local runners, from the Belarus crew. Older. Meaner. Eyes like cracked pavement.
He looked me up and down, slow. Amused.
“You the new kid?” he asked.
I didn’t answer.
“That your drop?”
Still nothing.
“You gonna hand it over, or you wanna lose teeth?”
I swallowed. Shook my head once.
He laughed. Like it was funny. Like I was funny.
“You ever been cut,malen’kiy mudak?” Little fuck.
Still nothing from me. But my palms were sweating now. My grip slipped on the package.
He stepped closer.
“You don’t move, I’ll do it for you.”
I took a breath.
Then spit at his feet.
Missed.
Didn’t matter.
He smiled like I just made his day.
Then he pulled the knife.
The blade wasn’t big. But it was fast.
I ducked left. He caught me anyway.
Steel kissed skin, shoulder to collarbone. A red smile opened up across my chest—fast, hot, unforgiving. Skin split like paper under a boxcutter, and for a second, I didn’t feel pain. Just heat. Like someone poured boiling water straight into my chest.
The sound dropped out, went muffled and strange, like I’d been dunked underwater mid-heartbeat. My vision tunneled. The alley shrank around me. Dumpster. Brick wall. His fucking smile.
Everything went white at the edges, and I couldn’t breathe—not from the wound, but from the knowing. That this was it. No help. No pause. Just me and the next cut, and the one after that.
My feet shifted without thinking.
Fight or die. I chose to fight.
He raised the knife again, but I moved first.
Tackled him. Hard. Like I was drowning and he was the last dry thing in reach.
We hit the pavement. My elbow cracked against the bricks. His knee slammed into my ribs. His fist caught my jaw—once, twice—snapping my head sideways so fast my ears rang. Stars burst behind my eyes.
But when he reached down to grab the package, instinct lit me up. I lunged. Sank my teeth into the meat of his hand, right below the thumb, and bit down like my life depended on it—because it fucking did.
