A moment later, two more figures emerge from the shadows - Squeal and his henchman. Squeal is a scrawny, twitchy man with a patchy beard and sunken eyes that dart around nervously, like he's expecting an ambush at any moment. He's got a backpack slung over one shoulder, and I can see the outline of the pill baggies through the thin fabric.

His henchman is a different story - a mountain of a man with a shaved head and a neck thicker than my thigh. He's got a mean look on his face, like he's just waiting for an excuse to start swinging.

Derek raises a hand in greeting, his posture loose and casual. "Squeal. Glad you could make it."

Squeal flinches at the sound of his own name, his eyes darting around the empty loading dock. "Yeah, well, you didn't leave me much choice, did you? This better be legit, man. I don't like being jerked around."

Derek nods, his expression serious. "It's legit. You got the product?"

Squeal hesitates for a moment, then nods jerkily. He shrugs off his backpack and unzips it, revealing dozens of paper baggies filled with green capsules. "It's all here. Unlabeled, like you asked. But I gotta tell you, man, this is some crazy shit. I don't know what you're planning to do with all this Jump, but it ain't gonna be pretty."

Derek frowns, eyeing the baggies warily. His eyes twitch. "What do you mean, unlabeled? How am I supposed to know what's what?"

Squeal shrugs, a nervous tic pulling at the corner of his mouth. I can't tell if he's dicking Derek around on purpose, or if he's just so spaced out that he legitimately forgot. "That's the deal, man. You're buying in bulk, so you don't need the descriptions. It's all the same shit anyway. Just different batches, different powers."

Derek looks like he's about to argue, but then he seems to think better of it. He takes a deep breath, pinches the bridge of his nose, relaxes his shoulders, then nods. "Alright, fine. Whatever. But if any of this is bunk, I'm coming back for a refund. With interest."

Squeal's henchman takes a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides. "You best watch your mouth, boy. Ain't nobody getting a refund here."

Derek holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Easy, big fella. I'm just making sure we're on the same page here." He looks back at Squeal. "I've got a couple boys outside, but they're keeping a respectful distance. I don't want no trouble, but I gotta look out for my own, you know? So let's not start any fights."

The deal is in full swing now, Derek and Squeal exchanging terse words and suspicious glances. But even as I watch, my attention is divided, my senses straining to pick up on any hint of danger. I feel my stomach clench at the mention of Derek's "boys," knowing full well that he's talking about us. But if Squeal suspects anything, he doesn't show it.

And then, I feel it. A sudden, sharp tug at the edge of my consciousness, like a fishhook caught in my brain. Bright red. In the shadows of the warehouse, cutting themselves on... on a nail on the floor? Whoever this is, they're professional enough to not yell out. But that doesn't stop the sinking feeling in my throat.

I turn to Jordan, my eyes wide with panic. "There's someone else here," I hiss, my voice trembling. "We're being set-up set-up."

"The rare double sting operation," Spindle tries to joke through his teeth, even as all the color drains out of his face.

Jordan's face goes pale, their eyes darting towards the shadows. "Shit. What do we do?" they whisper.

I shake my head, my mind racing. I want to call out to Derek, to warn him that something's wrong. But I can't, not without blowing our cover.

So I do the only thing I can do. I watch, my heart in my throat, as the deal plays out. And I pray that whatever's lurking in the shadows, whatever's coming our way, isn't as bad as the dread pooling in my gut.

I tune back in just as Squeal nods, his fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm on his thigh. "Yeah, alright. Look, can we just get this over with? I don't like being out in the open like this."

Derek nods, slinging the duffel bag off his shoulder and tossing it at Squeal's feet. "Sixty large, like we agreed. Count it if you want."

Squeal eyes the bag for a moment, then shakes his head. "Nah, man. I trust you. Let's just do this."

He hands over the backpack, and Derek takes it gingerly, like he's handling a live grenade. He unzips it and peers inside, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The whole thing feels surreal, like something out of a bad movie. The abandoned loading dock, the baking sun overhead, the nervous energy crackling in the air. And me, crouched in a cardboard box with my two best friends (well, three, if you count Jordan), watching it all go down.

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, my palms slick with sweat. Every muscle in my body is tensed, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation.

But then, just as quickly as it began, the deal is done. Derek zips up the backpack and slings it over his shoulder, giving Squeal a curt nod.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he says, his tone cold and businesslike.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Squeal just grunts in response, already backing away towards the shadows. His henchman follows, his beady eyes never leaving Derek's face.

And then they're gone, melting into the darkness like ghosts. Derek stands there for a moment, his shoulders slumped with relief. Then he turns and starts walking towards us, his pace brisk and purposeful.

I let out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding, my whole body sagging with exhaustion. We did it. We actually did it.

But even as the relief starts to wash over me, a nagging thought tugs at the back of my mind. Where did Derek get all that money? Sixty grand is a lot of cash to just have lying around, especially for a guy like him. And if it's not real... well, I don't even want to think about what Squeal might do if he finds out he's been duped.

And then I remember. Is that guy in the corner going to do anything? Or is he just here to watch - to collect data and leave? I'm just about to voice my concerns to Jordan and Spinelli when I hear it - the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked. My heart drops.

My heart stops in my chest, my eyes widening in horror. I peer through the crack in the box, my breath catching in my throat at what I see.

There, lurking in the shadows of the loading dock, is another figure - a goon, his face twisted into a snarl of rage. He's got a gun pointed straight at Derek, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"Squeal!" he shouts, his voice echoing off the crumbling walls. "You double-crossing son of a bitch! You think you can just walk away with Sparkplug's product like that?"

Squeal freezes, his eyes wide with terror. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

The goon steps out of the shadows, his gun never wavering from Derek's chest, but vibrating intensely in his hand. This guy - pale skin, almost flabby, draped over him like a curtain, hair that hangs in sweaty waves over his head - looks like he's on something. But my knowledge of drugs is minimal, to say the least. I couldn't tell you what. "Making sure you don't forget who you work for, you little weasel. Now hand over the Jump before I splatter your brains all over this fucking dock."

Derek tenses, his hand inching towards the gun tucked into his waistband. But before he can make a move, the goon pulls the trigger.

The sound of the gunshot is deafening, a thunderclap that echoes through the empty streets. I watch in horror as the bullet rips through Derek's jacket, tearing a hole in the leather but miraculously missing his flesh.

But it's not the gunshot that makes my blood run cold. No, it's the sound that comes after - a scream of pure, unadulterated terror that rips from Squeal's throat, a sound that's so loud it wraps around and turns back into force.

And then, chaos erupts.

An apocalyptic sonic boom blasts through the factory, shattering windows and sending debris flying in every direction. The force of it is like a physical blow, knocking me back against the wall of the box and driving the breath from my lungs.

I hear Jordan cry out in pain, their hands clamped over their ears as they try to block out the deafening sound. Spinelli is curled into a ball, his eyes screwed shut and his mouth open in a silent scream.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, it's over. The silence that follows is almost as deafening as the sonic boom, broken only by the ringing in my ears and the pounding of my own heart.

I blink, my vision swimming as I try to make sense of what just happened. And that's when I realize - the box is gone. Shredded to pieces by the force of Squeal's scream, leaving us exposed and vulnerable on the loading dock.

We're sprawled out on the concrete, tangled together like a pile of puppies. Jordan is on top of me, their elbow digging into my ribs, while Spinelli is draped across my legs, his face pressed against the ground.

For a moment, nobody moves. Nobody even breathes. We're all too stunned, too shell-shocked to do anything but lie there and try to process what the fuck just happened.

And then, Squeal starts to scream again.

"It's a setup!" he shrieks, his voice high and panicked. "You fucking set me up, man! You brought the fucking cops!"

He's pointing at us, his finger shaking with rage and fear. I can see the whites of his eyes, the sweat pouring down his face. He looks like a cornered animal, ready to lash out at anything that moves.

Derek staggers to his feet, his face a mask of confusion and anger. "What the fuck are you talking about? I didn't bring no cops! These are my fucking boys, I had to make sure!"

But Squeal isn't listening. He's backing away, his hands held out in front of him like he's trying to ward off an attack. "Fuck this, man. Fuck all of you. I'm out of here."

He turns to run, but before he can take more than a few steps, the goon is on him. He grabs Squeal by the collar, yanking him back with a snarl of rage.

"You're not going anywhere, you little shit," he growls, his gun pressed against Squeal's temple. "Not until you give me what's mine."

Squeal whimpers, his eyes darting around like a trapped rat. "I just sold it, man. I swear to God. It's his! Go take it from him! I don't have any more!"

The goon's face twists into a sneer of disgust. "Then I guess you're not much use to me anymore, are you?"

He cocks the gun, his finger tightening on the trigger. I watch in horror, my heart pounding in my chest, my mind racing with a thousand different scenarios of how this could play out.

But before the goon can pull the trigger, Derek is on him. He tackles the goon from behind, sending them both crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs and curses, the other man's skin visibly warping and shifting. I don't think that's a superpower. I think he just looks like that.

The gun goes flying, skittering across the concrete and coming to rest just a few feet from where I'm lying. I lunge for it, my fingers closing around the grip just as the goon breaks free of Derek's hold and makes a grab for it himself.

For a moment, we're locked in a desperate struggle, both of us tugging at the gun with all our strength. I can feel the metal biting into my palm, the sweat trickling down my face and into my eyes.

But I'm not letting go. Not now. Not when everything is on the line.

I grit my teeth, summoning every ounce of strength I have left. And then, with a final, desperate yank, I wrench the gun free from the goon's grasp.

I scramble to my feet, the gun held out in front of me with shaking hands. I've never held a real gun before. Only fakes during sparring. But I know enough to keep my finger off the trigger, to keep it pointed at the ground and away from anything I don't want to shoot.

"Nobody move," I say, my voice sounding small and thin in the vastness of the loading dock. "Everybody just stay where you are."

But even as the words leave my mouth, I know it's too late. The damage is done, the plan is shot to hell. We're in way over our heads, and there's no telling how this is going to play out. Derek, Squeal, and this... fella are in a pile over yonder. Jordan and Spinelli are slowly scrambling to their feet, and Squeal's buddy is bearing down on me like an angry bear.

I don't know what to do with this gun. My muscles are tense, but sore. Angry at me. I take it, fiddle with it, and manage to pop the magazine (clip?) out, scattering it to the ground. Then, I throw the gun towards the guy charging at me.

It hits him on the head, bounces off, and does nothing to slow him down.

The only thing I hear in the stagnant air is Squeal screaming "GET OFF OF ME!", before another thunderclap of noise rips through me.