I swallow hard.
I look around on reflex and see the same scenery: trees, dogs, quiet streets. Everything so organized, so perfect. The same view that filled me with awe when I first came here for the delivery—now it feels dangerous. Like something rotten hiding beneath a thin layer of fake civility.
Every bone in my body is shaking. I don't need a mirror to know my pupils are blown wide, as if that could help me somehow.
Stupid sympathetic nervous system.
I force myself to breathe. Slow. Controlled. I try to think instead of panic, to analyze my predicament. Jaw clenched. Back straight.
Maybe I should call the police.
But that woman wouldn't take that risk. Everyone knows the cops in Sunny City are sold to the highest bidder, and I don't even have the credentials—or the credibility—to explain this without sounding insane.
Eventually, I reach the only conclusion that makes sense:a sixty-percent chance of survival is still better than running.
Any of those guards could break my ribs with a slap. Escaping over fifty of them? Not even in my dreams.
Let's face it.
I check my phone. That old motherfucker still hasn't read my message.
Decision made.
I must protect the package with my life. I shove it deep inside my jacket, get on the scooter, and drive fast—but paranoid fast.
I've never followed traffic rules in my life. I've always found a way to bend or break them.
But right now?
I'm the perfect citizen.A role model for every scooter driver out there.
According to my newly discovered respect for traffic laws, the address she sent me is two hours away.
Two hours is a long time.
If that manager bastard thinks I stole the scooter, he might call the cops. So I should call him first, using the hands-free, and tell him I had an accident and I'm at the hospital.
I did and as expected, I get anything but sympathy. Not even a trace of humanity. To him, my life is worth about the same as one scooter tire—maybe less.
Let me save some dignity and skip the details.
Long story short: I get the day off… and half my monthly paycheck cut.
It feels like ages before I finally reach Southyard.
When I read the name earlier, I thought I was heading to another high-end condominium. I was expecting at least a nice view.
This place is as far from heaven as hell gets.
"Southyard" sounds like parks, kids, lollipops.
What I actually see are run-down bars to my left and right. Business must be good—there are way too many of them. And there's a scent in the air:
Piss.And deprivation.
When I reach the address, I find a normal-looking building.
Too normal.
So normal it feels completely out of place in this neighborhood.
Standing in front of it is a guy with MAD DOG tattooed across his forehead.
And here I am—without even a bone to throw the dog.
He gives me a cold glare.
"Yeah?"
One syllable.
Fuck. Too communicative.
What the hell do I even say?
Let's try.
"Yeah…?"
"Are you fucking with me?" he snaps.
"Sorry, mister," I say, starting to sweat. "I'm here for a delivery. This address. The source is—well, I don't know if you know her—but her name is Ruby."
He freezes.
"Madam Ruby?"
"Yes."
He steps aside.
"Enter."
I don't like his tone. Half respect for the name Ruby, half mockery—and I just hope that mockery isn't aimed at me.
I step inside.
A mudroom opens in front of me. At least fifteen shelves, every single one packed with heavy boots—the kind you wear on construction sites… or the kind you wear when you plan to break bones.
I leave my sneakers behind and slip into the provided slippers.
As I move forward, they start to appear.
Different rooms.Different doorways.Same faces.
Tattoos on their cheeks. On their necks. On their foreheads.Different designs, same message:
Don't even think about being funny.
I call them the Mad Dog family.Not just because of the matching outfits, but because they all share the same stare—the kind that makes you feel like you already owe them something.
Money.Blood.Maybe your soul.
None of them speak.
The stairs are the only path left.
Upstairs, the same scenery. More Mad Dog relatives—only these look more religious. Black cross tattoos crawling all over their arms. They leave just one door unguarded.
I walk toward it.
I knock.
And then I hear it.
The most delicate voice in the world.
I swear it sounds like a mermaid singing. Just two words:
"Come in."
It drives me completely out of my senses.
I really hope it's a she.
At least.