"About fucking time," he snaps as I kill the engine, but the fear in his eyes undermines the bite in his words.

We push past aisles of fishing gear, hooks glinting like tiny daggers in the dim light. The air is thick enough to choke on—a toxic cocktail of saltwater, mildew, and something darker. A tank bubbles in the corner, bait fish swimming endless circles, waiting for death. Felix, another lost soul caught in this web, cracks open the back room door. The hinges cry out like they're warning us to run. Inside, six of Monty's crew crowd around a plastic table that's one breath away from collapse, playing poker with the kind of stakes that end in blood.

The door snaps shut behind us with the finality of a coffin lid.

"Well, well, look what the country club dragged in." Monty's voice slithers through the stale air, each word dripping with a disdain that makes my skin crawl. He's all sharp edges and bad endings—a late twenties psycho with a body count inked on his arm like notches on a bedpost. Cross him and you're either out cold or becoming his next tattoo.

He pops a beer with his teeth and spits the cap at my feet. The metallic ping against the concrete floor echoes like a warning shot. "You rich fuckers think the world's got nothing better to do than wait on you, huh, Preppy?"

The rage in my chest coils tighter. "Family emergency," I lie through clenched teeth, tasting copper where I've bitten the inside of my cheek.

A smirk twists his lips as he stands, looming close enough for me to catch the stale stench of beer and weed and something darker—something that smells like violence waiting to happen.

"Family? Must be nice having one. Never knew mine. Didn't have a daddy to spoon-feed me gold and grease my path to the Ivy League."

His eyes glint with the kind of madness that's earned him every one of those body-count tattoos. The room crystallizes into sharp focus. Something dark inside me smiles at the odds: just Jay and me against his gang of six. The kind of math that ends in hospital visits.

"Are we gonna wax poetic about my so-called privileged childhood or your daddy issues, or are you gonna take the money?" My voice cuts through the thick tension like a blade, each word dripping with contempt. Part of me wants him to snap, to give me an excuse to paint these walls red.

He laughs, the sound low and menacing as a growling beast. "You got some balls on you, Preppy. Showing up late, making us wait, and now pushing me to hurry?" His eyes catch the fluorescent light like broken glass. "You're playing with fire."

The room holds its breath. Even the ceiling fan seems to slow its lazy spin. I feel Jay trembling beside me, his fear a tangible thing in the heavy air.