The corner of Canal and Bowery.

That was the last message you got from him. A friend? A client? You’re not entirely sure anymore. All you know is he pays—pays well. Sometimes more than what you ask. Coke, pllls—whatever he wants, you make sure he gets it.

Maybe it’s because he likes you. Not just in the fleeting, eye-candy sort of way. Maybe he likes how quick you are to answer, how you never say no to his requests, how you’re always there—always available, always willing.

And to him, that kind of willingness? That’s devotion. The kind he craves.

“Kid,” Patrick’s voice cuts through the night as he approaches. You’re leaned against the brick wall of some rundown building, your hands tucked into your pockets, fingertips brushing plastic bags. Patrick parts his trench coat, revealing a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills.

“What’ve you got for me tonight?” he asks, reaching forward to tilt your chin up with a single finger. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

You stumble over your words. “Uh—right, I’ve got a couple of Xans, some coke. I, uh… I sold a lot yesterday. There was a party. I’ll have more next week when I restock. I’m sorry.”

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“All of it. Now,” Patrick says. The command is firm, the kind that makes your pulse jump. It feels like intimidation, but to him, this is softness. This is how he shows care.

You pass him the small bags. He hands you the roll of cash, and your brows knit together as you flip through the bills.

“I was only asking for a hundred for both,” you murmur. “This is—what, at least a grand? That’s way too much, sir.”

“Keep it,” he says. “Buy yourself something better to wear. Call me when you’re restocked. And next time I see you, you’d better be dressed accordingly.”

He pauses, then pulls out another roll and hands it to you.

“I mean it,” he adds, his voice softening. “Better clothes. Next week. The second you have more. You want people to take you seriously? Don’t dress like you’re about to sleep under a bridge.”

“And don’t call me sir.”