Page 46 of Manic

“Meet me down here in ten minutes. Look the part.”

We head to our rooms, stripping off our cuts and finding something more appropriate to wear.

This is the part of the job that requires a different kind of strength—the ability to become someone else entirely.

I run a hand through my hair, mussing it up.

With one look in the mirror, I think I look the part and I head downstairs.

Emil’s already there waiting for me.

"Ready?" I ask Emil, my voice already taking on a rougher edge.

He nods, his own transformation complete. "Let's do this."

As we head out to the beater car, I can't help but think of Tindra, safe at home with Meghan.

I need to knock this out and fast.

I have to be at Meghan’s by six tonight for dinner.

The beater car rumbles to life as I turn the key, the engine sputtering like it's on its last legs.

Perfect for our cover.

We peel out of the clubhouse lot, leaving behind the safety of our world and heading straight into the belly of the beast.

As we cruise through Tallahassee, the scenery changes drastically.

Clean streets give way to litter-strewn sidewalks, well-maintained buildings morphing into dilapidated structures with boarded-up windows.

This is the part of town the tourists never see, the underbelly that keeps the city's darker appetites satisfied.

"There," Emil mutters, nodding toward a shifty-looking character loitering near an alleyway.

I pull over, my heart rate picking up.

This is it.

I take a deep breath, channeling the desperation of a man in need of a fix. "Stay alert," I mumble to Emil before stepping out of the car.

As we approach the dealer, I can feel the weight of my responsibility pressing down on me.

This isn't just about scoring drugs—it's about protecting our territory, our family.

"Look man," I say, my voice rough and urgent as we reach the dealer. "Can you help a boy out? I need a bundle of smack, man."

The dealer looks up, his eyes narrow and calculating.

He sizes us up, probably trying to determine if we're worth the risk. "Best I can do is $150, man," he finally says.

I start digging in my pockets, my hands shaking slightly for effect. As I pull out the cash, I intentionally fumble, dropping bills onto the grimy sidewalk.

"Fuck," the dealer mutters in annoyance, eyeing the scattered money warily.

I crouch down, hastily gathering the bills. "Sorry, sorry," I mumble, playing up the addict act.

Inside, I'm hyper-aware of our surroundings, watching for any signs of trouble.

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