I watch her walk inside—the way she glances back once, that small wave that says more than she probably means it to—then I drive back to my side of campus.
My room is small. Neat. Hockey gear stacked in a crate by the door, a single poster half-peeled from the wall—some band with a good drummer. My laptop sits open on the desk beside my burner phone, the screen still glowing from earlier.
Outside, campus is starting to wake up. Laughter drifts through the window. Someone’s tossing a football across the quad. Two doors down, some idiot is blasting EDM at six in the morning.
I sit at my desk—cheap particle board, dented from fists that weren’t mine—and pull up my private spreadsheet.
Three counties. Five runners. Eight drop points. All coded in shorthand that only I understand.
I find Axel’s name. Highlight both cells where he appears. Hover over the delete key.
Then I press it.
The columns close like a wound.
Cut one vein to save the body.
I light a cigarette by the window, crack it open just enough to exhale through the screen so the RA won’t smell it. The smoke curls out into the morning air, disappearing into nothing.
She fell asleep to my massage last night. Trusted me enough to let her guard down completely. That feeling—the weight of her relaxing under my hands, the soft sound of her breathing evening out—it felt good.
Better than it should have.
I take another drag, ash out the window, and pick up my burner phone.
Time to make good on my promise.
The first call is to Juno.
He’s a mid-level supplier in county two, moves mostly coke and pills. He picks up on the third ring.
“Yeah?”
“Axel’s off,” I say, voice flat. “You hear that name again, you hang up.”
There’s a nervous laugh on the other end. “He’s small time, man. Why do you even care?”
“Then he’s easy to erase.”
I hang up before he can respond.
One down.
I tick a line through Juno’s name on my notepad. The rhythm of it—call, warn, confirm, tick—calms me more than caffeine ever could.
Next is Rafe. County one. He’s cocky, thinks he’s untouchable because he moves weight for three different suppliers.
He answers immediately. “Koa. What’s good?”
“Axel’s done. Don’t sell to him.”
“He offered double last week,” Rafe says, like it’s a negotiation.
“If you want to keep breathing easy, refuse.”
Silence. Long enough that I know he’s running the thought through his head—profit versus pain.
“Yeah,” he finally says, voice clipped. “Understood.”
