Inside a grimy storage unit by the docks, John slumped in a chair, still cwing back from yesterday’s crazy sex, balls more than drained, body hollowed out. Seo-young stood beside him, her arms crossed, breaking the quiet first.

  “You were just fine yesterday morning when I met you, but you look like you are dying today. What happened to you?” John just rolled his eyes, sharp and dismissive. He didn’t answer the question, but instead, he asked one: “Long story. Anyway, you brought everything I asked for?” Seo-young then dug into her bag, fished out a fat file pouch, gave it a shake with a light smirk on her face. “Yeah, but some of it’s weird as hell, capsaicin and ink? What’s that about?” John just shook his head, and stayed silent. He snatched the bag, ripped it open, then pulled out a syringe, mixed the capsaicin and ink with a spsh of water. He cinched a rubber band around his arm, prepping the shot. Needle poised, he slid it under his skin, and started to push the murky brew in, wincing as it stung.

  “I’m infiltrating a drug crew. You think they’ll buy me without some junkie cred? Capsaicin and ink fres the skin up, fakes heroin shots.”

  Seo-young’s brows shot up. How’d he know that? But before she could ask, he cut in, deadpan: “TV series, picked it up from some TV series.” She snorted, couldn’t help it, as she was caught off guard by his blunt, no-pretense shrug. No cloak-and-dagger bullshit, just straight-up sitcom smarts. She chuckled a bit, but then she circled back, curious: “Okay, but why’d you need me to steal some cocaine from our evidence lockup?” John tugged the coke from the bag, eyed it, and sighed heavy. “Come on, princess, you’re a cop. Don’t tell me it never comes to you that the Reapers might give me a urine test. If I come up clean, I’m fucked. So I need a little something else, with low addiction risk, way less than heroin, got it?”

  He didn’t know how to feel about this. Back in his previous life, he was never among the cool kids, and no one even invited him to smoke weed with them, so he never had the chance to try any of this. But now he had to do some coke to pull off some undercover work in a drug gang? Just weird.

  Seo-young stared, as his commitment sank in, rattling her. She prided herself on grit, top-tier cop game, but would she go this far? Blow a line just for a case? He’s not even a cop, she thought, yet here he was, diving headfirst into the muck. Her face darkened, as her sharp, pretty features knotted up, brows bunching tight, and John caught it. He fshed a cheeky grin to wave it off.

  “Rex, princess. This is my call, so no guilt trips on your end, okay? If you are really feeling bad, give me some sugar,” he teased, tapping his cheek with a smirk. Seo-young’s fist cocked back, ready to slug his shoulder like she always did, but it then stalled midair, dropping limp. Silence hung thick, then she fumbled, voice low: “Just… don’t die, okay?” John chuckled, and fished a cigarette from his pack. For the first time, he jangled the box her way, offering one. And she squinted, half-annoyed, half-sure he was just messing with her, as she made it so clear to John that she hated smokes. Then she swung anyway, fist cracking his shoulder. Her breasts jiggled hard with the motion, a quick, wild bounce. Seeing her snap back to herself, John barked a ugh, before reeling it in. “Alright, now, tell me my way in.”

  As per Seo-young’s instruction, John pulled up to a spot that screamed auto shop, grime-streaked walls, the faint tang of oil and rust hanging thick. A Harley sat out front, sleek and mean, chromed to hell. If the Terminator rolled in, he’d jack it without a second thought. Doorway was a junkyard mess: scattered tires, a busted fender, tools strewn loose—screwdrivers, pliers, a wrench half-buried in dirt. Inside, though, it split weird. Repair gear cshed with a gym setup: a barbell rack, free weights, a bench press parked square in the chaos. Two guys loomed—Reapers, no question—leather vests fshing the patch on their backs, all swagger and steel. John’s eyes flicked down, looking at his own leather jacket hugged his frame, and he smirked to himself.

  Great, nailed the outfit.

  Then there was the third guy, a cocky prick, new blood apparently, strutting like he owned the joint. Mid-thirties, scruffy mustache, face screaming badass motherfucker—right wrist sporting a watch worn face-in, left index finger smudged with gunpowder residue, practically begging you to notice he was a southpaw former grunt. And he was wearing a leather jacket too.

  Oh great, I’m matching dickhead vibes, John thought.

  But the real show was the guy sprawled on the bench, Rex Stone, the Crusher, John’s potential boss for this stretch. Reapers’ golden-boy enforcer. He was bald, had no brows, not a whisker on his face, just a carved sb of menace. Muscles popped, big, clean lines, chiseled like a pro bodybuilder’s wet dream. He was pretty much the same size as Tyler. While Tyler had the bearish bulk, Rex was a pure inverted triangle. To John, Rex looked like a guy who was dealing protein powder rather than powder, maybe sneaking some steroids on the side too.

  This is just fucking great, we got a fucking fitness influencer here, John mused.

  But Seo-young’s warning looped in his head, sharp and insistent: “Don’t piss him off! He’ll crush you like an ant!” She’d smoothed her neat bangs after, adding, “Especially don’t joke about his build!” John’s grin faded, as he clocked Rex again. The guy was all meat and murder, and John figured she wasn’t wrong.

  Yep, Rex’s crew was short-handed, because he recently got rid of two of his own crew. These two guys got high, joking about never skipping leg days, and Rex crushed them. Literally crushed them using his bare hands to snap their necks. That’s why they were recruiting for the next “big job” coming up.

  John stepped inside the pce, and the first voice, sharp and smug, was from the new guy, as cocky as his strut. “Hey, beat it, pal. The spot’s filled.”

  John didn’t look at him, since he wasn’t the one calling the shots here. Instead, he flicked his eyes to Rex, and caught his wide, zy grin, sizing him up like he was a fucking tart. A prickling sensation crept up his spine, his irritation fred, but he swallowed it. Rex didn’t say otherwise, nor did he blink, and just let the newbie’s cim ride, which meant full was full. The boss’s silent nod sealed it. Seo-young’s pn? Not gonna work now.

  But John didn’t flinch. No panic at all, he just stood there, cool, scanning the room: two Reapers, the new guy, Rex. Simple math—if they’re maxed out, just drop one and make some space. The Reapers were nothing special, textbook goons, all stiff respect in their moves, fear etched in their eyes. Rex barely looked at them, as if they were just some ghosts, disposable. Easy pickings for John, lowest risk, clean takedown. The new guy? Didn’t look like an easy target. But his worn-out soles, frayed leather cuffs, messy hair, and a scruffy mess mustache were all screaming broke, and he was here for cash. Take out a goon, and he’d probably sit it out, since money’s his leash.

  John was still chewing it over when the newbie piped up again, sharper this time: “Hey, pal, what’re you waiting for? This ain’t your gap-year pit stop, college boy!” The word “College boy” was so funny to them as Rex and the goons roared, Rex spping a handshake with them, throwing an exaggerated “ooh”—a clown show that grated John harder. He bit it back still, and stayed quiet, sticking to his pn: rile a goon, scrap him out. Another idea flickered though. It would be fun to py their typical gangster fear-and-respect game, and turn it on them. But it was way too risky, so John brushed off the idea. His silence egged them on, and the goons piled in, cackling: “Haha, JT’s right. You’re just a college boy! Here for your thesis? Here’s a starter: fuck off, or we’ll fuck you up, got it?” Rex grinned wider, and flexed his pecs on purpose, a meathead taunt. John’s disgust spiked, words itching to fly, but they steamrolled him, leaving no gap for him to jab back.

  Then Rex spoke, his voice booming, low and thick, like a subwoofer rattling the walls: “College boy, scram. Tell your mom to clean up and wait for me. I'll show her what a real man is. But don't worry, I’ll leave her in one piece after it, haha!” And that snapped John’s st thread.

  Well, change of pns, motherfuckers.

  “What? Do I have to grow a pair of man tits like yours, so you can stop calling me ‘college boy’?” John arched a brow, jabbing a finger at Rex’s pecs, eyes glinting, all challenge. Four guys, one slot. Drop the boss, same diff, right?

  “The fuck you say?” Rex erupted, lurching up, while JT, the new guy, yanked his gun, barrel locking on John. John slid a sideways gnce at JT, cool and unbothered, then doubled down, voice dripping venom: “What now? Your man tits just for show? Still need to pull a gun to back it? In that case, just skip leg day, dumbass, as you’re clearly getting nothing from it. Your twigs ain’t half as thick as my dick.”

  Silence smmed down, the two goons froze, lips sealed, not a peep. Their st crewmates cracked a leg-day joke, ended up pulp under Rex’s fists. This college boy? Dead man walking—nuts, ft-out nuts.

  Rex’s grin twisted, and he waved JT off: “Put it away man. No one jumps in, JT. Gonna show you how I squash an ant, a college ant.” The goons piped up, and let out some half-assed cheers, as if they were gd it wasn’t their necks on deck. JT holstered, arms crossed, leaning in, eager for the Rex show.

  Rex coiled to charge, but John’s voice cut in, sharp: “Hold up, man tits.” He dug into his pocket, and fished out a Vigogen2, then popped it in his mouth with a theatrical gulp. “Too good of a chance to miss. I’m getting high for this.” He pyed it like the pill was dope, a junkie move to cement his cover, while sneaking the boost. Vigogen2, sex drug or not, he wasn’t sure if it’d juice his strength or speed, but he’d roll the dice, as he had no other choice now.

  “And then, I’m gonna fuck you up.” He smiled at Rex while saying this.

  Straight-up? No shot he’d take Rex barehanded. The guy was a tank, so beyond banking on the pill, his eyes darted, scanning the shop: tools, tires, weights, anything to weaponize in the brawl.

  But Rex charged, barreling in, a thick leg swinging a brutal kick straight at John. He dodged, darting aside, smaller, nimbler, outpacing Rex’s lumbering bulk. No breather as Rex whipped back, fist arcing for John’s skull. John ducked, diving low, but st night’s madness clung, and squatting sapped him, as his rising gged. Then Rex’s next kick roared in, aimed square at his face. So John threw his arms up to block the kick, but the force still sent him tumbling, skidding across the floor. He rolled, and scrambled up, stance shaky but set, braced for Rex’s next swing. The watching trio hooted, cheering for their champ, but they didn’t clock it: John got lucky. Rex’s legs weren’t the freight train his arms promised. Also, when he threw the kick, he was off-bance a bit, so that kick nded lighter than it could’ve. Still, John’s arm throbbed, and his face scraped raw from the roll, looking roughed-up, ragged.

  “Why don’t you keep that mouth running, college boy? Still wanting to get high before you fight me?” Rex sneered, looming. “Thought you gonna fuck me up, college boy? You see, I’m not just crushing you. I’ll dig up your address, pay your family a visit, especially the women.”

  Rage fred in John’s chest, hot and jagged, his blood boiling as he weaved, eyes racing over the shop. Weapon, need a fucking weapon. And there it was, an open toolbox, guts spilled on the ground. This could be a goldmine for John, but he couldn’t just stroll over to it with JT’s gun itching to bark; he’d be Swiss cheese. Had to be sly.

  Rex rushed again, and John shifted, now backing towards the box, baiting the range. Rex obliged, a heavy stomp rocketed at his chest. John’s arms crossed, taking it, and at impact, he flung himself back, hard, selling it like he’d been bsted off his feet. Cushioned the blow and closed the gap at the same time. He was lucky as his ass smmed right by the toolbox. He grimaced, pying hurt, agony etched deep, eyes locked on Rex, still fierce, while his hand snaked back, fumbling blind under the guise of propping himself up. He was pying that he couldn’t stand back up again, a perfect cover. His fingers grazed a small screwdriver, so he snatched it, and slipped it quickly into his sleeve, toolbox shielding his move from anyone seeing it.

  The goons cackled, cpping now. “College boy’s done already! This all you got, and you got the balls to challenge the boss?” And JT smirked, eating it up, loving John’s flop. But here’s the twist, Vigogen2 finally kicked in, slow and warm, John’s strength seeping back, pooling in his limbs, waking him up.

  “Pytime’s over. Time to end your sorry ass, college boy,” Rex snarled, lunging, his hands outstretched, cwing for John’s head. If those mitts closed, his skull’d be mush. But John, Vigogen2 pumping hot in him, pnted a foot and sprang, lightning-fast, to Rex’s left. Before the big man could twitch, John whipped a Muay Thai sweep, vicious, heavy, right into Rex’s lumbar spine. The kick nded like a sledgehammer, John’s drug-fueled force rocking Rex, staggering him hard. But Rex was too damn thick. Those muscles soaked some of it. Without them, his spine might’ve just snapped, lights out, paralyzed. Still, it slowed him, and that was enough for John. He darted behind Rex, and Rex spun to face him as instinct kicked in. His face barely turned, and John didn’t wait as he saw the opening. He yanked the screwdriver from his sleeve and rammed it straight into Rex’s ear.

  Rex instantly crashed, rigid, twisted, his right side jerking wild, because his left brain was shredded. His lips gaped, desperate to open his mouth, but his teeth locked tight, grinding. Roars trapped in his throat, muffled, choked, no escape.

  Well, guess Shawshank didn’t lie. Nail the ear, jaw cmps shut, John thought, watching the wreck twitch.

  The goons, who were cheering loud a second ago, now stood gobsmacked, frozen stiff, brains shorting out. This was all too fast, too unreal. Their fight-god Rex, now was dropped like a sack. JT snapped quicker, gun out, bsting a shot at John. And he ducked, bullet grazing his scalp, singeing his hair. He then flung the screwdriver like a tiny javelin, nicking JT’s wrist. Just a scratch, but enough to jolt his grip, his gun slipping from his left hand. JT lunged for it. His fingers almost brushed the steel, when John fshed in, boot pinning his hand, and both hands snagging his hair. Then a knee crashed into JT’s jaw. Made his legs buckled, folding under John, too dazed to rise.

  This pill’s gold. Speed’s unreal, John clocked, scooping the gun off the dirt, and swiveling it toward the goons, who were now finally fumbling for their own pieces in a panic. He cocked a brow, and waved the barrel—toss ‘em. And they did, metal cttering. Seeing they were now unarmed, John lowered the gun, finger pointing at Rex, who was still half-twitching on the ground.

  “Hey team, Rex ain’t making the gig for sure now. Slot’s open. I’m in?”

  JT, sprawled, gasping, snapped back: “You fucked Rex, and how we pulling this job now?” John just shrugged, cool as ice. “We’re all here for cash, and who leads the pack doesn’t change the take, right?” He jabbed a finger at the goons. “Rex got his orders from higher up. You’re Reapers too, so you go grab the job, and we four run it, split the cash even.”

  John’s py here? After his show-off, he was sure that crossing him, who was shadow-fast in the trio’s eyes, was definitely not an option for them, whether they were doing the job or not. And now, John offering them an even cut, which seemed impossible with Rex, was like offering a carrot after swinging the stick. That contrast would stop any further resistance toward him cold.

  He slid his foot back onto JT’s hand, particurly his left index, gun finger, and started pressing slow, deliberate. “Hey, those two are in. What about you, pal?” He dragged “pal” long, mocking, mirroring JT’s smug “spot’s filled, pal.”

  “Ouch, fine! Ouch, stop it! That’s my shooting finger!”

  “Yeah, I know. Why else would I pick it, dumbass?” John smirked as he eased off.

  Then he stepped towards Rex’s twitching heap. Fear and respect, the cssic gangster game, huh? Gotta show them more, lock them in tight.

  John grinned down at Rex, who was sprawled and twitching, his voice light, taunting: “You know, I really like your ugh earlier, I do. Why did you stop, man tits?” Rex’s teeth stayed cmped, eyes bzing, twin furnaces of hate boring into John. But John didn’t care at all. He simply ignored it, and gnced around, then locked on the barbell ptes racked behind the bench press. “You love to workout, right?” Then slow steps, he hefted a 20-kilo disc from the rack, and ambled back to Rex’s head side. “Got an idea, man tits. If your mouth’s stuck, I’ll help loosen that jaw for you.” Words dropped, and he hoisted the pte high…

  “Crusher,”—thud—”huh?”

  “My family,”—thud—”huh?”

  “Women,”—thud—”huh?”

  “My mom,”—thud—”huh?”

  The other three, JT and the goons, gaped, dumbstruck, as the college boy kept his promise: Rex’s jaw loosened for sure now. They were not even sure if it was still a jaw as it was smashed to pulp. John just stood there now, his face, hands streaked with blood, Rex’s blood. Nonchantly, he fished a smoke from his pocket, and lit up. He took a deep drag, as the blood smeared the cigarette, still dripping from his face, but he was simply unbothered, not even wiping it off. Worst part? His pants, bulging now, a clear hard-on pushing the fabric. Not that John was turned on by the carnage. It was Vigogen2, kicking in again, hitting where it was meant to be now. The trio didn’t know that though.

  Fucking psycho, their faces screamed.

  “Hey you two,” John waved to the goons, “go clean up. I saw a fucking furnace when I walked in, so don’t ask me how. It’s a dumb fucking question.” Then he stretched zily, as he sauntered towards JT, who was still slumped on the ground.

  “You know, I’m kinda digging the name ‘college boy’ now.”

  JT flinched, fear spiking, eyes darting to that bulge, no clue what this nutcase had pnned. But John just smirked, handed the gun back, casual as hell. “TTI Sand Viper, expensive as hell, but I gotta say, you have a good taste in guns, pal. Put it back now. Don’t wanna leave any scratch on it.”

  Thing is, John didn’t need to do much to JT, since he just threw a few jabs his way, and that was it. But if John was running this crew, he needed a right-hand man, and JT, another outsider like him, fit perfect. That shot he took earlier? Without the pill, it’d have drilled John’s forehead right between his eyes. JT was surely a sharpshooter, leagues above the dimwit Reapers. And John wasn’t one to ignore talent. He extended a hand, offering JT a lift up.

  “I’ve always got respect for veterans, pal. So we cool now?”

  JT hesitated, eyeing the hand, the tension thick in the air, but eventually, he grabbed it, pulling himself up with a grunt. The moment the st of his weight settled on his feet, John gave a small nod, and the unspoken understanding passed between them. They were on the same team now, whether JT liked it or not.

  "So, what's your name, college boy?"

  John was waiting for this moment. Earlier, Seo-young was asking him to give her an undercover name, so she could make up some crime records for John, in case someone from the Reapers would want to have a check on him. And John combined two of his favorite characters' names, one being a drug dealer, the other being a narcotics cop. So he dropped this self-picked badass name, or at least he thought so.

  "Lalo, Lalo Cohle."