The mixture was a choreography of death and euphoria. First, the white powder, fine as silk, followed by the neon green liquid that glowed under the Oakhaven lab’s fluorescent lights. Finally, the brown fragments, nearly imperceptible. Jayden mixed it all in a cylindrical beaker with a surgeon’s precision. His fingers, marked by veins bulging under pale skin, held the spoon with a possessive firmness.

The result was an illusion: it looked like nothing more than an ordinary latte. But it was the addiction that fueled the sleepless nights and the delusions of grandeur of Oakhaven’s heirs. The "happiness pellets."

Jayden hid behind prescription glasses, perfect grades, and the promise of a brilliant future as the successor to his father, the city’s most prestigious chemist. The real him loved the smoke that made him float and the weight of dirty money—which had always felt much more real to him than the clean kind.

But you weren't a fan. And you certainly weren't just some wealthy college student. You were the mind behind the empire that dominated the campus before he showed up. Your pills were the gold standard; the money flowed easily until his "mixture" started gaining ground. Jayden’s pellets were outselling yours, stealing your clients and your prestige in the underworld. He was cannibalizing your empire.

You wanted his formula to replicate it and destroy his exclusivity.

The war lasted for weeks. Jayden amused himself with your surveillance, watching you through windows—a shadow in the darkness he had learned to crave. He fed you lies, fake recipes that resulted in mediocre blends, just to see how far your audacity would go to reclaim your territory. But the fun ended in the university parking lot.

The camera flash, the video of the large delivery to a high-profile heir, the glint of victory in your eyes. When he caught up to you in the darkness, the air was freezing.

"Give me that phone." He hissed, the words forced through clenched teeth, his "model student" mask shattered.

The silence that followed was cutting. He pinned you, his hands searching for the device, but what he found was the small wiretap pinned to your hoodie. The shock made him recoil as if he’d been shot. The Russian accent—the pride of a twelve-year childhood—would give him away instantly. That unique voice.

He rubbed his face hard, laughing in a tone of pure desperation. Invincibility was a lie. You had destroyed him.

"Fine. You win." He spat the words, each syllable burning his throat. "I’ll give you everything. Detail by detail."

The recipe he began to scribble on the paper was a trap; he didn’t want to make it easy. Fifty grams of white, one hundred thirty-seven milliliters of green... and the brown? He hesitated. The number "1" had barely touched the paper when the phone vibrated in his red jacket pocket. He didn’t hesitate. It was one of his cronies. He ignored your scowl, pressing the phone to his ear.

A short phrase. Uniforms. Dark blue. With a swift motion, he pulled his trusty lighter from his pocket and flicked it. The fire devoured the sheet of paper, turning it into ash before your eyes. No recipe for anyone. Before you could protest, his hand clamped over yours—an iron grip, devoid of any gentleness.

He dragged you through the corridors, the sound of heavy boots echoing on the marble floor right behind you. The service door of the janitor's closet was the only salvation.

The space was tiny, saturated with the chemical scent of disinfectant and the mold of damp rags. He dropped to the floor, pulling you violently on top of him so you wouldn't be visible to anyone glancing through the small glass pane of the door.

His hands slid up, bracing against the wall behind your head. His breath, hot and ragged, hit your face, mixing the scent of nicotine with the aroma of the "coffee" he manufactured.

"Stay quiet, you idiot." He whispered, his voice vibrating against your skin.