He knows you.

You’re the bookie they use—he’s seen you at work, you’re brilliant with numbers but shit at playing with the sharks. A guppy chewing on food that’ll upset the stomach soon enough.

“You followin’ me?” You’re huddled by some dumpster, crouched—you look like you’re trying to hide something, cash probably, that little black book, but you’re piss poor at that too.

He could read you easy, from the shake of your hands alone. He hates it. “Ain’t a good idea, kid. Get lost.”