Lucas drove fast, his grip tight on the wheel, muttering under his breath, Oh God, keep me safe. When he finally reached the location Marcus had called him to, his eyes widened in disbelief.
"What the hell, bro?!" Lucas exclaimed as he stepped out of the car, pointing at the building glowing in rainbow lights. "You're investigating here of all places? Like, seriously?"
Marcus raised an eyebrow, utterly unfazed. "And why not?"
Lucas sniffed the air with that sharp nose of his and made a face. "Because this is a gay night club. What exactly are we doing here?"
Rolling his eyes, Marcus replied, "Relax. I didn't bring you here to enjoy the place. We've got work. Listen carefully—this club is one of the city's hotspots for drug trafficking. High doses of synthetic stuff get pushed here, and half the time kids collapse right on the floor."
Lucas's discomfort grew. "Fine, but what does that have to do with me? I don't see anyone dead, Marcus. Murder scenes I can handle. This? This smells like trouble in neon paint."
"Enough," Marcus said firmly, motioning him forward. "The victim's inside. If you want to help, stop complaining. You're already with us—nobody will bother you. Come on."
With no other choice, Lucas followed Marcus and his small team past the club's bouncers. The heavy bass of the music rattled through the walls, and the air reeked of sweat, alcohol, and something darker—burnt chemicals that only Lucas's sharp senses could catch.
Marcus flashed his badge at the guard, who gave a reluctant nod before letting them into a back chamber. The scene inside made Lucas freeze.
The room was dimly lit, tables cluttered with bottles, half-spilled glasses staining the floor. Several men lounged about in various states of undress, their eyes glassy, their bodies limp with intoxication. Others lay slumped against the walls, senseless from the drugs.
Lucas's gaze sharpened on a skinny boy—barely clothed, barely awake. He wasn't even eighteen. The stench of chemicals clung to his skin, and beside him sat an older man with the air of wealth and power. Lucas pointed. "That kid—he's underage. He shouldn't even be here. And the man with him… that's not his father. But the resemblance—"
"Got it," Marcus said grimly. "Hold on." He signaled to three of his officers. "Sweep the entire place. Quietly. Don't tip anyone off. If you find anything suspicious, you report straight to me. And you two—" he turned to the remaining officers, "find the stash. I want to know where they're hiding the rest of the drugs."
The officers melted into the shadows, leaving Marcus and Lucas to survey the room.
Lucas crouched beside the boy, his sharp nose catching the faint chemical trail. "He's been force-fed a cocktail of drugs," Lucas muttered, his voice tight. "If we don't get him to a hospital now, he won't survive the night."
Marcus didn't hesitate. He whipped out his phone and barked into it, "I need an ambulance. Now." Within minutes, paramedics rushed in, carrying the boy and another collapsed youth out on stretchers.
As the flashing lights faded outside, Lucas leaned against the wall, watching the chaos swirl around the club. He exhaled slowly. "That kid's from a poor family," he murmured. "I could smell it on his clothes—faded soap, cheap detergent. His mother and sister are the only ones at home. No father around. He's probably in the city just to study… and look what they dragged him into."
Marcus glanced at him sharply, his jaw tight. "If this is what they're doing to kids, then this case is about to get a whole lot darker."
The bass thumped on in the distance, as if mocking the fragile line between pleasure and death.
To be Continued...