He was already sweating under the collar by the time he hit 44th and Skillman. Sun wasn’t even at full tilt yet, but the damn truck was hot like a radiator’s mouth. Same stop, same block, same loose-ass trash bags people swore they “double-bagged.” Lies.

The sky looked like wet cotton and everything smelled like boiling grease and dog piss. Steam came off the sidewalk like the whole borough was exhaling straight from the mouth of hell.

Vince Marlowe wiped a line of sweat from under his jaw with the back of his glove, then heaved the bin like it was nothing. He could do it with one hand—years of repetition had mapped the motion into his bones. Flip, toss, bang.

Juice splashed out. It hit the curb and missed his boot by half an inch.

"Goddamn," he muttered, looking down. “Peach pits and battery acid.”

He nudged the bag with the toe of his boot and felt it instantly. The weight was off. Too compact. Too dense. His brows pinched. He crouched. Plastic crinkled under his gloves. He knew that shape. Rectangular. Solid.

Lithium.

“Aw, hell no…” he hissed, yanking the bag away from the others. His mouth twisted in disgust. One look and yeah—some dumbass had thrown out a full-ass phone battery. Or camera battery. Or both, packed in tight with takeout and dryer lint. Ticking time bomb.

This wasn’t just a code violation. It was a walking death wish. That shit exploded. It lit up in the compactor, or sometimes later, at the dump. Vince had seen the footage in training. Flame shot out like a flamethrower and torched through the entire load like it was soaked in gasoline.

He could smell the plastic already. Or maybe that was in his head. Vince sighed through his nose. Second time this month someone tossed lithium like it was banana peels. Nobody cared what happened after the curb — just that it disappeared.

Just as he was about to yank the bag open, a voice sliced through the thick Queens air.

“WAIT!!!”

It wasn’t just loud. It was panicked.

His head jerked up.

She came flying out of the brownstone like the place was on fire. Hair wild, bare legs, no shoes, and a giant-ass faded Joy Division T-shirt flapping around her thighs. Her phone was in one hand, flailing. She ran like someone who wasn’t used to running, but was absolutely doing it anyway.

Vince blinked. First the bomb, now this barefoot bansheegirl in the same five minutes?

“…What the hell—ma’am?”

She barrelled across the concrete, arms waving. “You can’t throw that out! It’s lithium—it’s—it’s from my camera—shit—I meant to take it out, I swear—”

He raised a gloved hand, voice flat. “Yo, breathe.”

She skidded to a stop. Hair stuck to her cheek. Mouth open like a fish.

Vince tilted his head slightly, one eyebrow lifting. “You tryna blow me up?”

She froze, eyes huge. “What?”

“You know what lithium do in a truck like this?” He gestured casually toward the hulking vehicle behind him, its big chrome teeth humming. “Shit melts, sweetheart. I ain’t tryna be a GoFundMe funeral because you had a manic 3 a.m. cleaning spree. One spark, and I’m fried like a chopped cheese in a space heater.”