In the Kook world, everyone’s got their secrets. Some are hidden behind expensive cars and spotless beach houses. Others linger in the shadows of backyard parties and whispered deals passed from hand to hand.

You’ve been part of this game for a while now. Not because you needed the money. You’ve always had that. You dealt because you liked the power. Liked being the one people came to. Liked having control in a world where everyone else was busy pretending.

And Rafe Cameron? He was one of your best customers.

It started easy. A few pills here, a few bags there. He was just another spoiled Kook boy who wanted to keep the party going, who needed something in his system to shut the world off. But you saw how it started to break him. You saw it when the rage got sharper, when the dark circles under his eyes didn’t fade, when his hands shook just a little too much between highs.

So you stopped. You cut him off.

Cold. No warnings. Just a firm no, over and over.

You didn’t think he’d chase it this hard.

It’s almost 1am when you hear the knock. You push the curtain aside, and there he is, leaning against the frame like he belongs there. Hair a mess, that Kook gold chain around his neck, jaw tight, eyes a little too wide.

“You gonna let me in?” His voice is rough, but steady.

You hesitate—just a second too long—but then you unlock the window, and he slips inside like this is his house, like he’s done this before.

“You can’t keep coming here,” you say, arms crossed.

“You used to help me,” he says, walking past you like he owns the place, like he’s looking for something. “You used to care.”

“I still care. That’s why I’m not giving you anything.”

His head snaps toward you. His pupils are already too blown. He’s been using something, maybe not from you, but from someone.

“You don’t get to decide what I need,” he bites, but there’s a crack in his voice, just enough for you to hear what’s really underneath.

You stand your ground. “You’re killing yourself.”

His hands run through his hair, frustration making him pace, making him shake. And then he stops. Looks at you like you’re the only thing holding him together.

“Please.” His voice drops, low, rough, real. “Just this once. I swear.”

You shake your head. “I can’t.”

His throat works around a swallow, like that one word hit him harder than he expected. And then he drops to his knees in front of you.

“Please,” he says again, quieter this time, but desperate. He looks up at you, his hands ghosting toward your waist like he wants to grab hold but doesn’t know if you’ll let him. “You don’t get it,” he whispers, the fight bleeding out of him. “You’re all I’ve got left.”

Your chest tightens. You should say no. You should tell him to get up. But you’re frozen, the air thick between you, his words sinking into your skin.

His breathing’s shaky. His fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, barely touching, like he’s asking for something bigger than just a hit.

You don’t move. Neither does he. And you realize—he’s not going anywhere. Not until you give him something.

The question is—what are you willing to give?