One month later.
Winter nights in New Jersey always came early. By five in the afternoon, the sky was already suffocated by lead-grey clouds.
But inside Walter Pharmaceuticals, the lights were blazing, and the roar of machinery was like a tireless beast.
Hiss—
White plastic gallon jugs moved along the conveyor belt. Viscous purple liquid was injected with precision, capped, and pushed to the next station.
No labels.No instructions.No expiration dates.
Only that enchanting purple hue, refracting a bizarre sheen under the fluorescent lights through the semi-transparent plastic.
Old Jack stood by the iron railing on the second floor, clutching his old flat cap, his brow furrowed deep.
As a butler who had served the Walter family for thirty years, he had seen this factory produce aspirin, antibiotics, and even first-aid kits during World War II. But he had never seen a scene like this.
The workers were no longer wearing white lab coats but dust suits. Their eyes held a mix of excitement and unease—the greed of seeing their paychecks double, warring with the primal fear of what they were manufacturing.
"Young Master."
Jack turned to look at the young man standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the entire workshop.
"This is the third batch. Five thousand gallons. No warehouse records, no FDA approval, not even a sales contract."
His voice trembled slightly.
"Last night, I saw unmarked trucks taking them away. Those drivers... they didn't look like delivery men. They looked like..."
"Like what, Jack?"
Victor turned around.
He was wearing a dark grey cashmere coat, holding a cup of hot coffee. The gentle college student was gone, replaced by an impenetrable depth.
"Like gangsters?"
Victor chuckled lightly and walked up to Old Jack.
"Jack, look at this factory."
He pointed to the busy assembly line below.
"A month ago, it was a corpse. Workers were striking, the bank was foreclosing, and we were about to be on the street. But now? Look at them. Everyone has pockets full of cash. We're even giving out year-end bonuses this Friday."
"But this isn't following the rules..." Jack stammered.
"Rules are made by the living, Jack."
"We are saving this factory. We are manufacturing 'happiness'. As for where it goes, that's the logistics company's business, not ours."
"Listen to me. Don't ask, don't look, just pay the wages."
Victor turned and walked toward his office.
"By the way, Jack. I've deposited twenty thousand dollars into your retirement account. Go buy a house with a pool in Florida. You deserve to enjoy life."
Old Jack stood frozen. Watching Victor's retreating back, he suddenly felt that the young master he had watched grow up had died on that rainy night.
This man was a stranger.
...
Camden, New Jersey.
Known as the "Murder Capital of America," poverty, violence, and drugs grew wild like weeds on these ruins.
In an underground disco called "Detroit Night," heavy bass bombarded everyone's chest.
The DJ cut to a new track.
The rhythm suddenly slowed down. It was a deliberately elongated, distorted beat, as if the cassette tape had jammed. The low vocals sounded like they were coming from a deep well, carrying a viscous, psychedelic texture.
Chopped and Screwed.
The crowd on the dance floor didn't stop because the rhythm slowed; instead, they fell into a crazier, almost religious sway.
Their movements were sluggish, exaggerated, their eyes glazed over.
Everyone held two stacked white styrofoam cups.
"To Texas Tea!"
A black rapper with dreadlocks stood on a pool table, raising his double cup high.
The cup was filled with ice, a few red Jolly Rancher candies, and that intoxicating purple liquid. Texas Tea, or Lean, mixed with Sprite. The rapper threw his head back and took a huge gulp.
The unique liquid, tasting of grape and medicine, slid down his throat. Minutes later, the synergistic effect of promethazine and codeine began to explode in his cerebral cortex.
The world slowed down.
Lights turned into flowing lines; sound became a textured solid. All anxiety, fear, and rage were gently wrapped and swallowed by this purple tide.
"This is God's piss!" The rapper laughed, throwing a stack of bills stained with white powder and lipstick into the air.
Green dollars fell like rain.
In the corner of the club, Fat Tony sat on a leather sofa, watching it all.
At his feet were three black leather suitcases. Each one was stuffed full.
"This is basically robbery."
Tony took a puff of his cigar, the smoke turning purple under the flashing neon lights.
"One month. Fifty thousand. Net profit." He turned to his bodyguard. "Tell Victor I want double next week. No, triple! These niggas will sell their own mothers for a sip of this 'Purple Water'!"
...
Trenton Police Department, DEA Task Force.
Hank Schrader parked his Chevrolet on the roadside, rubbing his temples in exhaustion.
As a veteran who had spent fifteen years on the front lines of the drug war, his intuition was sharper than a police dog's.
Something was wrong on the streets lately.
It wasn't that there were fewer shootings, but that the street gangs, who usually fought to the death over heroin turf, had suddenly become "quiet".
This silence made him uneasy.
"Hey, Hank! Look what I confiscated."
His partner, Gomez, walked back from dispersing a group of high school students, holding something strange.
Two stacked white styrofoam cups.
"Kids these days are weird. Need two cups to drink Sprite? Afraid their hands will get cold?" Gomez laughed and tossed the cups toward the trash can.
"Wait."
Hank's eyes narrowed, and he reached out to stop Gomez.
He picked the cup out of the trash and sniffed it.
A cloyingly sweet grape scent, mixed with a medicinal smell that was familiar but hard to place.
A little purple liquid remained at the bottom of the cup, glinting eerily under the streetlamp.
"This isn't Sprite."
Hank dipped his finger in, put it in his mouth, and tasted it.
Sweet.Bitter.And a slight numbness on the tip of his tongue.
"Codeine..." Hank frowned. "And the taste of antihistamines."
He looked up at the neon-lit district in the distance.
"Check this stuff."
Hank bagged the cup as evidence, his eyes becoming sharp as a falcon's.
"Has any pharmacy been robbed recently? Or any hospital lost a large batch of cough medicine?"
"No, boss. It's been terrifyingly quiet."
"That's even more terrifying."
Hank looked at the purple evidence bag, his voice low.
"If it wasn't stolen, then someone is.mass-producing it."