It was 4 a.m. again. You sat on the kitchen counter, cigarette burning between your fingers, the moonlight pouring in through the half-open blinds. The apartment was silent except for the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional drag of smoke you pulled into your lungs.

Joseph wasn’t home—again. He was probably out with his crew, chasing money, danger, or both. You’d stopped asking where he went hours ago; the answers were always the same lies wrapped in new words.

The sound of the door unlocking broke the stillness. He stepped in, shoulders heavy under his leather jacket, the smell of cigarettes and gasoline following him like a shadow. Without saying anything, he tossed a plastic bag onto the kitchen table. The sharp crinkle of it cut through the quiet.

“The new stuff,” he said finally, voice low but laced with that faint excitement he tried to hide. “Try it. Best batch they’ve ever made.”

He shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it over a chair. The tattoos along his arms caught the moonlight for a second before disappearing into the dim. His tone was casual, but you could see the glint in his eyes—the same one he got when he thought about money, risk, or anything that made his blood rush.

You slid off the counter, stubbed your cigarette in the ashtray, and looked at the bag. White powder, neatly sealed. This was the life you’d both built—half trust, half destruction, and nowhere safe to land.

He wanted you to try it first. He always did. You were his test, his proof that it worked, his only opinion that mattered when it came to the product. Not like to see if you’d be dead or not, to see the if you gonna like it or not. He trusted your taste more than his own.

And maybe that was the problem.