Brick front.Old neon sign buzzing even in daylight.A bell on the door that rings when customers come in and when trouble leaves.The kind of place that sells rebellion to teenagers and antibiotics to infections it pretends not to have.
I park two blocks down.Walk the rest.No hurry.If he’s already dead, I’m too late.If he isn’t, timing won’t save him.
Inside, it smells like disinfectant, ink, and something sweet trying to cover poor decisions.A woman with purple hair looks up from behind the counter, eyes glazing over me—boots, jacket, hands—and decides I’m not here for art.
“Back’s closed,” she says.
“I know,” I say, and keep walking.
Last door on the left.Back hallway, past a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, past a bathroom that hasn’t seen bleach since the last century.
I open the door.
Cold hits first.Then the kid.
He’s twenty-four, maybe twenty-five.Too much confidence for his frame.Hoodie unzipped like he wants someone to see what he’s carrying.He’s counting pills into plastic bags on a stainless-steel table, hands moving fast, sloppy.
He looks up and smiles like this is a misunderstanding.
“Shop’s closed,” he says.“You lost?”
“No,” I say.“But I’ll let you pretend I am, if it helps.”
He laughs.That’s the mistake.
People always think the laugh buys them time.It doesn’t.
“I don’t know who you think you are,” he says, voice rising like he’s hoping someone might hear him, “but you should?—”
I move in close—closer than comfort allows—until the space between us turns chemical.
Oil.Metal.The faint trace of bleach that never really comes out.
“You’re playing God with bad inventory,” I say.“I’m here to shut that down.”
His smile buckles.Not all at once.Just enough to show the math’s changing.
“I don’t?—”
“You do.”
I let the silence settle, heavy as a dropped tool.
“You know who doesn’t overdose?”
He doesn’t answer.He won’t.
“The ones who never take the first hit.”
I watch him swallow—once, hard.
His eyes dart to the door.There’s nowhere to run.He knows it now.
“I can switch suppliers,” he says quickly.“I swear.I didn’t know?—”
“You knew,” I say.“But money’s louder than conscience.”
I take his right hand and lay it flat on the table.He starts to scream before I do anything.That’s another tell.People who know what’s coming always do.
