The attack comes faster than my anger-dulled reflexes can track. Monty's hand wraps around my throat like a python, squeezing until black spots dance at the edges of my vision. The rough concrete wall slams against my back, but I barely feel it. Part of me welcomes the pain, craves it even.

"Don't you fuck with me or my time again, you ungrateful little shit. Got it?" His breath hits my face, hot and sour with beer.

I stay silent—not from fear, but because the darkness inside me is enjoying this too much. Some sick part of me wants him to squeeze harder, to give me an excuse to unleash the hurricane building in my chest.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, Monty." Jay's voice wavers like a candle in the wind. "He screwed up, but he's got the cash. It won’t happen again.”

Monty's eyes narrow, shooting Jay a look that could strip paint from walls. Jay shrinks back, but his mouth keeps running, desperation making him brave or stupid—probably both.

“We’ll be early next time,” Jay stammers, words tumbling out like dice on a rigged table.

The grip on my throat loosens just enough for me to drag in a ragged breath. The room spins back into focus, sharp and mean as a knife's edge.

"Where's the fucking money, kid?" The word 'kid' comes out like poison.

I fish out an envelope from my back pocket, movements deliberately slow. Every eye in the room tracks my hand like sharks scenting blood. "It's all there—$1,500." Each word scrapes past my bruised throat.

"You owe me another grand by the end of the week for wasting my fucking time." His voice drops lower, a promise of violence wrapped in velvet.

"Felix," Monty barks, jerking his chin at me like I'm garbage to be taken out. "Hand him his shit."

Felix, looking young enough to still believe in redemption, passes over the stash with trembling fingers. I grab it, the weight of bad decisions heavy in my palm.

"And Preppy," Monty calls out as we turn to leave, his tone mocking but promising blood, "don't pull that shit again. Not even thirty seconds late next time, or I won't be this nice."

The muggy summer air hits like a slap when we stumble outside, reality crashing back in waves. My throat throbs in time with my pulse, a rhythm of rage and adrenaline.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Jay explodes the moment we're clear of the shop, his voice cracking like thin ice. He runs shaking hands through his hair, leaving it standing up like a startled cat. "What the fuck, Nate? Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

I stride toward the Mustang, the rage still singing in my veins, drowning out his words. The stash burns in my pocket like a guilty secret.

"Shut up and get in the car," I snap, my patience a frayed wire sparking dangerously. "I don't have time for this."