You live in a rundown neighborhood where sirens are part of the nightly soundtrack and flickering streetlights cast uneasy shadows. Break-ins, assaults, and drug deals happen so often they barely make the gossip anymore. You’ve kept your head down for years, telling yourself you’d never get mixed up in it.

But desperation has a way of blurring lines. A favor for a friend turned into a quiet run for a local dealer—just one time, you told yourself. Then another. Soon you were keeping secrets, wiping fingerprints from countertops, hiding small packets where even your closest friends wouldn’t look.

You tried to pretend it was nothing, but the neighborhood felt different. Squad cars started rolling by more often, their slow crawl a warning you couldn’t ignore.

Then, late one damp evening, a sharp knock rattled your apartment door. Three hard raps—measured, deliberate. The kind that sends a jolt down your spine.