I shake my head.
He punches me. Right in the stomach. The air leaves my lungs in a rush, and I gasp—swallowing the powder before I can stop myself.
“Good boy,” he says, patting my cheek.
The room tilts.
Not immediately. It takes a few minutes. But then the edges start to blur, the light overhead fractals into a dozen smaller lights, and my heartbeat pounds in my ears like a drum solo I can’t control.
I hate this feeling.
Hate it.
I’m fifteen again. Sitting in this same chair. Vincent standing over me with that same smile.
“You want to work for me, you need to understand the product.”
“I don’t want to—”
“You don’t have a choice.”
He forced it down my throat that first time too. Watched me gag, watched me cry, watched me beg him to stop.
And when I came down hours later, sick and shaking, he told me I did good.
That’s when I learned to hate drugs. Not because of what they do to people—though that’s bad enough. But because of what they do to control.
He made me dependent. Not on the high. On him.
“Are you listening, Koa?”
Vincent’s voice pulls me back. Or maybe I never left. Time is slippery now.
“Yeah,” I slur. “Listening.”
He slaps me across the face. Not hard. Just enough to sting.
“You’re a genius, you know that?” He laughs. “Getting the girl to trust you. Getting her to think you’re some kind of savior. That’s good work.”
I blink at him. Try to focus.
“But you’re also fucking stupid.”
Another slap. Harder this time.
“You put Gilbert’s son in rehab?” His voice rises. “You cut him off completely? What the fuck were you thinking?”
Gilbert.
The name cuts through the fog.
“He was going to die,” I say. My tongue feels thick. “Had to—”
“You had to follow the plan.” Vincent leans in close. “The plan was simple. Get close to the family. Find out where Gilbert is hiding. Make him pay. Not play hero for some junkie kid.”
“I didn’t—”
He punches me in the ribs. I feel something crack.
