The warehouse smells like wet concrete and fresh gun oil. I like it that way. No perfume, no bullshit cologne, just the honest reek of money changing hands in the dark. I stand with my back to the roll-up door, arms loose at my sides, 250 pounds of muscle and menace wrapped in a plain black tee and cut that still carries the faint tang of last night's exhaust, the Obsidian patch on my chest standing out amongst everything else.
Two buyers wait on the other side of the steel table. Wall Street types, both of them. The taller one's dressed in a pinstripe suit and wearing a five-thousand-dollar watch, keeping his eyes on the floor like a man who knows exactly how fast I can reach across and snap his neck.
The shorter one, slick-haired and sweating under the collar, clutches a slim aluminum briefcase against his chest. It's obvious they're here for more than a party drug. They're here for what Obsidian is known for. XR3. They're here because XR3 lets them fuck the market for eighteen hours straight and still wake up sharp enough to do it again tomorrow.
Moth, the logistics of Obsidian's market, steps forward, tablet in one hand, black nitrile glove on the other. He sets the padded case on the table and flips the latches. Inside, twenty glass vials glint under the light, clear liquid with that faint iridescent swirl that makes it look like liquid starlight. Pharmaceutical grade. Obsidian's own. No cut. No shake. No risk of your brain melting out your ears like the garbage the Geminoids are pushing out of Jersey.
"One hundred and twenty thousand," Moth says, voice flat. "Cash only. Same as last month. Price holds because the product doesn't degrade."
The tall buyer nods once. "And the eastern corridor?"
My eyes don't move, but my mind catalogues the question like a threat. They always ask. Everybody wants the shortcut route now that the feds are sniffing I-90.
Moth doesn't glance at me. He knows better. "Corridor's ours. Delivery window is twenty-four hours once payment clears. You get caught with it, that's your problem. We don't know you. You don't know us."
Bricks, my right hand, shifts his weight against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed over his chest. The big bastard grins, a gold tooth flashing in his smile. "You suits ever try this shit under the tongue in the middle of a board meeting? Feels like God jacked off in your veins. Makes your dick hard and your brain sharper at the same time. Hell of a combo."
Neither buyer laughs. I don't even twitch. Bricks' jokes never land when I'm in the room, unless I laugh first, and I haven'tlaughed since I was seven years old and my mother walked out without looking back.
Moth continues like Bricks hadn't spoken. "Revenue's up eighteen percent quarter-over-quarter. We're at four-point-two million this cycle. Demand's climbing — hedge-fund kids, pro athletes, even a couple pain-management docs who don't want to write oxycodone scripts anymore. Word's spreading that Obsidian's XR3 is the only batch that doesn't come with severe side effects."
The shorter buyer licks his lips. "Exposure?"
Moth's jaw flexes. "Up. Eastern corridor's got new shadows. Not sure if it's Amethyst or those bastards running moonshine out of the hills. They've been sniffing the handoffs. Asking questions in the bars. We've doubled the escort runs for now."
I finally speak, every eye in the room snapping to me. "Double ain't enough."
Moth nods once. "Already tripled it. Bricks took lead on the last three runs himself."
Bricks grunts. "And I'm still bored. These assholes couldn't find their own dicks with both hands and a map."
I let the silence stretch until the shorter buyer starts shifting uneasily, more sweat beading along his forehead. Then I step forward and pick up one of the vials, rolling it between my scarred knuckles. Six to ten hours of clean, razor-edged euphoria. Cognition dialed to eleven. Senses so sharp you can taste the fear in the air. No crash. Just the slow, cruel realization afterward that real life is muted, gray, worthless.
This is why Obsidian isn't some trailer-park MC anymore. The little glass tube is the difference between mid-tier muscle and an empire that moves product worth more per ounce than most crews move in a year. My operation. My formula. My fucking neck on the line if one bad batch hits the street and bodies start dropping.
I set the vial back in its foam slot. "You want more next month, you pay twenty percent up front. Non-refundable. We're not a fucking Costco."
The tall buyer swallows. "Understood."
Stacked bricks of hundreds hit the table, still smelling like the bank. Moth counts in silence while I watch the buyers' hands, their eyes, the way the shorter one's left knee jitters.
Another of the crew, Demo, hovers ten feet back near the door, trying to look useful. The kid's twenty-two, all nervous energy and fresh ink, still wearing the prospect cut like it might fall off if he breathes wrong. He keeps shifting from foot to foot, hands opening and closing like he wants to help carry the case but knows he'd probably drop it.
I don't even look at him. Demo will learn, or he'll die trying. That's the rule.
Moth snaps the briefcase shut. "Clean. We're good."
The buyers take their product and leave through the side door without another word. Tires crunch gravel outside, kicking up dust I can see through the windows, and then there's just silence.
I blow out a heavy breath. Everything's running smooth tonight. Too smooth. Smooth always makes me itch.
I turn toward the rest of them. Bricks is already lighting a cigarette, flame cupped in one massive paw. Moth is logging the cash on his tablet. And then there's Demo, just standing there looking like a puppy waiting for a treat he hasn't earned.
"Eastern corridor," I push out.
Moth doesn't sugarcoat it. "They're probing. Two vans last week, tinted, no plates. Sat outside the drop at the old mill for forty minutes. They didn't move on us, but they're getting bolder. If they figure out the synthesis route, we're looking at a war we don't have the bodies for yet."
My jaw tightens. An alliance with the Rogues is supposedly going to fix that, but unlike a simple conversation to hand overextra muscle, extra guns, extra eyes, my father — the current leader of Obsidian — wants a true alliance.
