The raid happened exactly like Oscar said it would.

  Police came in loud, tore through the speakeasy upstairs, dragged men out onto the street like trophies. They searched every corner, every shadow, every crack in the walls.

  But they didn’t find the crate.

  They brought a dog.

  The dog sneezed itself into confusion and refused to go near the stairwell where the crate sat, hidden under my brew.

  The police left frustrated.

  And Oscar paid my rent.

  Three months. Paid in full.

  The envelope appeared under my door the next morning, along with a note.

  Good work. We’ll be in touch.

  I stood there holding it, feeling the weight of those bills, and I realized something.

  I didn’t want to go back to my old life.

  Scraping by. Begging for work. Pretending I wasn’t drowning.

  I wanted this.

  I wanted to be the man they called when they needed something impossible.

  I wanted to be necessary.

  Two days later, Milo showed up again.

  “Oscar wants to see you.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  Oscar was waiting in the same spot—table in the back, newspaper open, coffee untouched.

  He gestured for me to sit.

  “You did good work,” he said. “Better than expected.”

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  “Thank you.”

  “I have more work for you.”

  He slid a key across the table.

  “This opens a space upstairs. Small workshop. Private. You’ll have access to a greenhouse on the roof. Whatever you need—plants, tools, supplies—you tell Milo, and it gets handled.”

  I stared at the key.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  Oscar leaned back, folded his arms, and said it plainly.

  “I need you to keep doing what you did. Hiding things. Protecting shipments. Making problems disappear.”

  He paused.

  “And I need you to make something else.”

  “What?”

  “A brew that makes people tell the truth.”

  I felt my stomach tighten.

  “That’s… different.”

  “Can you do it?”

  I looked down at the key in my hand.

  I could lie. I could say no. I could walk away right now and go back to being nobody.

  But the truth was already forming in my head.

  The book had recipes. Dimitri’s notes mentioned other brews. Stronger ones. Harder ones.

  And I wanted to try.

  I wanted to see if I could do it.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Oscar smiled.

  Not warmly.

  Not cruelly.

  Just satisfied.

  “Good,” he said. “Then you work for me now.”

  He stood, straightened his coat, and extended his hand.

  I shook it.

  And just like that, I crossed a line I didn’t even know was there.

  I wasn’t just some guy with a book anymore.

  I was Oscar’s chemist.

  And I was damn good at it.