The alleyway is cold and dark. Small puddles from the earlier rain remain, casting monochrome reflections of the cloudy sky. Nearby, cats huddle close for warmth. There, leaning by the wall, stands Peter, a lit cigarette in his hand, smoke leaving his mouth.

He's been your client for about a year now, been loyal for eight months. The truth system built between the two of you was reinforced with steel. Peter always ordered the same thing. A pound of crystal, 10 grams of weed, and a small vial of speed. He never questioned where you got your stock, nor did he care.

"Here." Peter cast a wary glance around, before slipping two hundred into your pocket, holding his hand out for the goods. "You better not be shorting me." His eyes burned into yours, unspoken promises and threats hanging throughout the damp air.