I step into the light anyway, just enough for him to see me. I square my shoulders, let him see the blood on my knuckles, the coldness in my eyes.
The cruiser doesn’t move for a long moment. The cop’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. I can see it from here.
Then, slowly, the cruiser rolls forward. Turns the corner. Disappears.
Gone.
I smirk.
Oxy finishes his cigarette, flicks the butt into the snow where it hisses and dies. “So what’s next?”
I pull out my own phone, check the time. 8:47 PM. We’ve got hours before the next drop.
“Locker seven at eleven,” I say, locking the screen. “You go quiet, I go loud. Understand?”
He nods. “And the kid?”
“Let him run.” I shrug, already moving toward the mouth of the alley. “If he pays, we’re good. If he doesn’t...” I trail off, let the implication hang.
Oxy doesn’t need me to spell it out.
We walk through the side streets, away from the rink, cutting through campus like we own it. Because we do. Every corner, every shadow, every back alley—it’s all ours.
Students pass us on the sidewalk. Freshmen, probably, still wide-eyed and naive, carrying boxes and duffel bags, laughing about roommates and classes. They don’t even look at us. Don’t see us. We’re invisible to them. For now.
The bass from a campus bar thumps through the brick walls as we approach. I can smell fryer grease and bleach, the stale sweetness of spilled beer. The door opens every few seconds, spilling light and sound and drunk college kids onto the sidewalk.
We move past the front entrance, slip around to the back.
There’s a guy waiting by the dumpster. Bigger than Axel. Older—maybe mid-twenties. He’s wearing a leather jacket that’s seen better days, jeans with holes in the knees, boots caked in mud. He’s counting bills when we round the corner, licking his thumb between each one.
He looks up, sees me, and his hands freeze mid-count.
“Koa.” His voice is steady, but I can see the tension in his jaw.
I don’t say anything. Just hold out my hand, palm up.
He hesitates. Just for a second. Then he passes me the stack.
I count it. Slowly. Deliberately. Let each bill slide through my fingers with a soft whisper. He watches, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Twenty. Forty. Sixty. Eighty.
I pause.
Ninety.
It’s supposed to be one-twenty.
I fold the bills, tuck them into my pocket, and stare at him. Let the silence stretch until it’s uncomfortable. Until his throat bobs and his eyes dart away.
“Tell your people,” I say, voice flat and cold, “I don’t do late fees. I do consequences.”
He nods. Fast. Too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll tell them. Won’t happen again.”
“It won’t.”
I turn and walk away, Oxy falling into step beside me. He’s grinning, shaking his head.
