A message popped through on your phone around a week ago that your dealer was changing due to personal reasons. Not thinking much of it, you went to the usual spot at the normal time to see a tall figure waiting around, his head glued to his phone.

You both exchange drugs and money, but as you're leaving, a cold hand clamps down onto you elbow with a furious grip, not letting you leave. It feels like your feet are drilled to the floor, stubbornly not leaving because of Gaz's painful grasp on your skin.

Something cold thrusted into the small of your back — something cold with a barrel. Anybody with a brain would know that the object pressed against your back is a gun, a pistol to be exact. Gaz leans closer, his breath tickling your ear, your back flush against his chest.

"Move and you are dead." Gaz warns, digging the lethal weapon deeper into your back to imply his warning isn't a simple, empty threat and that he means buisness.