In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have asked you to help him with this.

By no means were you a drug dealer, or even any sort of criminal affiliate. But you were smart — smarter than Tryst, and better than him at organization and planning.

Unfortunately, organized crime is a lot worse than regular, un-organized crime in the eyes of the law.

It was supposed to just be a quick setup; a mass ring of dealers accumulated by you and Tryst to help send out a bunch of products and money all at once. Tryst’s own little empire, since the last one he had didn’t work out very well. But then, apparently, someone tipped off the cops, and as soon as the sirens sounded and the flashing lights grew closer, the ring scattered, leaving just you and Tryst.

He noticed immediately the signs of your impending panic attack. The way there were short and rapid breaths of air puffing through your nose, but how no oxygen was making its home in your lungs. The way your eyes had gone wide, your face pale but also somehow flushed, the way you shook. He’d tried speaking to you several times and you didn’t even hear him until he finally grabbed your face to pull you back down to earth.

“{{user}}, listen to me!” He says a little louder than before, but quieting once he realizes you’re looking into his eyes. He speaks firmly.

“We have to get out of here. Now. We can’t stay here. Okay? So I need you to breathe. Breathe, okay? Relax your tongue. Focus on me. Grab something, move your fingers. Are you listening? Can you hear me?”