6PM.
A dim sari-sari store flickers under a dying neon "Coke" sign. The glow coughs against dusk like it's on its last breath.
Yan leans on the counter, smoke curling from his lips, scrolling through his phone like the world's on pause. Bryll slouches beside him, thumbs jabbing away at a mobile game. The screen's glow carves shadows under his eyes.
Then—
Tires crunch on gravel.
Doppy rolls up on his bike, still rocking his DoorDash uniform layered with a black hoodie—the ABQ logo stitched over his chest. Helmet tucked under one arm like a spare head.
He did not sit—just props himself against the wall, rolling a coin over his knuckles like he's rehearsed the scene.
"Dopsicles!" Bryll grins. "You drop fast!"
Doppy flicks the coin into his palm. "Of course. Had a delivery... to Aspad—"
He glances at Yan.
"—so I dropped a couple while I was at it." He winks to Bryll with a smirk.
Yan stops scrolling. The store's radio crackles with static.
Doppy wipes his nose. "Saw... Hippie's old friend. The one with the limp on the right leg."x
Bryll didn't look up. "Who's Hippie? Let's play one game, Dops."
Yan taps ash into a Coke bottle. "What did he say?"
Doppy pulls a grease-stained receipt from his pocket. "Nothing. Just laughed. Then... gave me a burger."
Yan unfolds the note:
#3/YO MUGAT – 9PM 3rd Chain Aspad.
"Just passing it on." Doppy chews his lip. "You know anything about this?"
Yan folds the receipt and slips it into his pocket. "No idea."
Doppy forces a laugh. "Alright, I'm off. Got a lot of shit on my plate."
His smile fades mid-turn. One last look at Yan—eyes tight, words unsaid—then gone.
9PM
The tapa house reeks of dried piss and spilled beer. Third chain in Aspad. Grease streaks the walls like they're sweating secrets.
Hippie sitting with his back to the wall, peeling the label off a Steel Reserve bottle. His hands are suspiciously clean. Nails trimmed. A suit. Too neat for this dump.
Yan slides into the booth across from him. The drink waiting there, untouched.
Hippie smirks. "You know, Nuban's beautiful at night. Especially when it's quiet."
He flicks the bottle cap—it spins, lands face up. Logo scratched out.
The order arrives. Hippie eats.
"This shit's amazing. Yo, try it." He chews like it's sacred.
"Mmm... never had tapa this good in Mugat." he says mid-bite.
"Not complaining though." His grin fades, still chewing.
"Used to dig through trash for food," he shrugs.
"Y'know what?" He chews louder.
"Me and Goy..." *bite* "...we go way back."
Yan glances up.
"We used to scavenge just to survive." Hippie points his fork mid-air.
"Literally, and metaphorically." He adds with a mock wink.
"We used to be best buddies... but now we're not. :< " *(He smirks—Frozen reference. Corny as hell.)*
Yan lights a cigarette. "What do you want?"
Hippie wipes his mouth. "A'ight, business time."
He leans in.
"I want us to understand each other."
From his suit pocket, he slides three things across the table:
- A ziplock of kush—green, loud, unlabelled.
- A single bullet—polished like it just got baptized.
- A blank check—name printed bold: *Marciano Cruz.*
"You get stash," Hippie flicks the kush.
"Cash," he nods at the check.
"And protection." He taps the bullet.
"Whoever you write on this bullet, Hippie Grippy gets it done." His grin twitches—sleazier than Bryll's freeloading one.
"I want ABQ Ink. under me. You plug with Hippie, you eat."
Yan didn't move.
All the hustling.
All the grind.
Was it all for this?
A motorcycle outside revved, interrupting the silence—then cut off. Too close. It stole their attention.
But then—Yan's phone buzzed. Confused, he looked at Hippie.
He answered when he's granted permission.
"Yanny!" Frix, gasped through the call.
"It's John!"