The room smells like stale beer, cheap weed, and a faint undercurrent of mildew that clings to everything, even the cracked linoleum underfoot. A radio in the corner is blaring something with a heavy bassline, drowning out the quieter conversations. A group of guys and one girl sit in a loose circle on mismatched chairs and a lumpy couch, all leaning in like they've got something real important to discuss. They don't. Not really. Just the usual: where they're going to move their next shipment, who's fighting who on whose turf, which dealer got busted and who's next in line to pick up the slack.

It's late--past midnight--but the energy in the room is alive, vibrating with the restless hum of people who live their lives on the fringes. The kind of people who don't set alarms because they don't need to wake up for anything. A phone screen flickers in someone's hand, casting pale light over the small table cluttered with empty beer cans and crumpled fast food wrappers.

"Man, I told you," one guy mutters, leaning forward, his voice low but urgent. "I can't say where I got it from. You ask again, I'm out."

The others laugh, but it's not the kind of laugh that says they think he's joking. More like the kind that says they think he's full of shit. The girl leans back, her arms draped over the couch like she owns it, her smirk razor-sharp.

"You can't say," she drawls. "That's cute. Like we don't all know what that means."

"It means shut up," he snaps, his eyes darting to the door like he's expecting someone to walk in any second. "You wanna talk about it in the open, fine. But don't come crying to me when someone drops your name."

The room quiets for a beat, the bass from the radio filling the silence. It's not hard to figure out what they're talking about. The guy's hand slips to his pocket, brushing over something with the nervous reverence of a kid hiding candy from their parents. Jump. No one says it out loud, but it's there, hovering in the air between them.

"Alright, alright," one of the others says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "You're the big man. Nobody's asking questions."

Another nervous laugh ripples through the group, and the tension eases--just a little. Someone cracks open another can, the sharp hiss breaking the rhythm of the music. The girl on the couch starts scrolling through her phone, her nails clicking against the screen, and for a moment, it feels like everything's going back to normal.

That's when they notice me.

I'm standing in the corner, leaning against the peeling wall like I've been there the whole time. Maybe I have. It's hard to say who spots me first. The guy with the Jump looks up, his eyes catching the faint glint of light bouncing off the black lenses of my mask, and he freezes. The girl with the phone is next, her hand stopping mid-scroll as she follows his gaze.

"Shit," someone breathes.

There's a pause--just long enough for them to wonder if I'm a hallucination, some trick of the light. The mask makes it easy to play ghost. The hood pulled over my head, the loose black hoodie and cargo pants blending into the shadows. The only thing giving me away is that faint reflection off the lenses, and even that's faint enough to make them second-guess themselves.

But then I step forward.

The guy with the Jump shoots up from his seat, his hand already halfway to his waistband. I don't flinch. I just tilt my head slightly, the faint creak of my mask straps the only sound I make. He freezes again, his fingers twitching like they're not sure if they want to grab the gun he probably has or just bolt for the door.

"Relax," I say, my voice muffled and flat through the filter of the mask. "I'm not here to make this a problem."

They don't relax. Of course they don't. The girl on the couch narrows her eyes, her phone still clutched in her hand like she's debating whether to call someone or use it as a weapon. The other guys shift in their seats, their postures rigid, like a pack of feral dogs deciding whether to snarl or run.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" the Jump guy snaps, his voice sharp with fear he's trying to hide. "You with somebody?"

I don't answer right away. Instead, I drop my backpack onto the table, the thud of it making them all flinch. Slowly, deliberately, I unzip it, pulling the flap back to reveal the contents: pill bottles, baggies of powder, a couple of preloaded syringes. Nothing I'm planning on using myself, but the kind of stuff that makes people pay attention. I'm no druggie. But I can give these lowlives just enough rope to hang themselves with.

"I'm not with anyone," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I'm here to trade."

"Trade?" the girl echoes, her tone dripping with skepticism. "Trade what? What the hell is this?"

I gesture to the bag, then nod toward the guy with the Jump. "You've got something I want. And I've got a whole lot of things you might want. Fair deal, right?"

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They don't move. They're still trying to figure out if this is a setup, if I'm here to sting them or rob them or worse. I can see it in the way their eyes dart between me and the bag, their brains working overtime to fill in the blanks.

The guy with the Jump steps closer, his hand still hovering near his waistband. "What do you want?"

I take a slow breath, the filter of the mask making it sound like a mechanical sigh. "Jump."

The word lands heavy, like a brick dropped into a still pond. The air in the room shifts, the tension thickening until it's almost tangible. They're looking at me like I've just grown a second head, their suspicion cranked up to eleven.

"Why the fuck would you want that?" the girl demands, her voice rising. "What are you, some kinda junkie?"

I shake my head. "Not for me. Just part of the program."

That throws them. They glance at each other, their confusion clear. The guy with the Jump narrows his eyes, his hand finally dropping from his waistband--not because he trusts me, but because he's trying to figure out what kind of game I'm playing.

"What program?" he asks, his tone cautious.

"The one where you give me your Jump," I say, pulling the backpack open wider, "and I give you enough of this to keep your operation running for a while. No questions asked."

It's a lie, of course. I don't care about keeping their operation running. I care about getting the Jump off the streets, and if it costs me a few pills or powders to do it, that's a price I'm willing to pay. But they don't need to know that. All they need to know is that I'm serious.

The room goes quiet again, the music from the radio still pounding in the background. They're weighing their options, trying to decide if this is worth the risk, if I'm worth trusting. I can see the doubt in their eyes, the way they keep glancing at the door like they're expecting a SWAT team to bust in any second.

Finally, the guy with the Jump speaks. "You think we're just gonna hand it over? Like that?"

I shrug. "Think about it. Jump's hot right now. Cops are cracking down, everyone's paranoid. You hang onto it, you're just painting a target on your back. Give it to me, and you walk away with no heat. Seems like a win to me."

The girl snorts. "And what do you walk away with?"

"That's not your problem," I say simply.

For a moment, no one says anything. They're still wary, still trying to figure out if I'm bluffing or crazy or both. I don't move, don't flinch, just stand there like a statue, letting the silence work in my favor.

The guy's fingers drum against the table, his eyes darting between the bag of drugs and me. "And you're just gonna walk out of here after, huh? No funny business?"

"That's the idea," I say. My voice stays calm, flat, even as my pulse quickens. I can feel the weight of their eyes on me, the air crackling with tension. I've been in rooms like this before--rooms where desperation stinks as much as the sweat-soaked walls. You learn how to read people fast. These ones? They're nervous, sure, but they're also weighing the odds. Trying to figure out if they can flip the script before I get what I want.

"Yeah, see, that's a problem," the girl on the couch says, leaning forward with a sly grin. Her voice is sweet and sharp, like broken glass dipped in honey. "We don't know you. You don't just walk into someone's house with a bag full of goodies and expect everyone to play nice. How do we know you're not gonna screw us over?"

I reach up, flicking the small switch on the side of my mask. The CPAP kicks on with a low hum, the mechanical hiss filling the room as the pump starts to work. It's a sound I've come to associate with control. For them, though, it might as well be the sound of a guillotine being sharpened. The air cycling through the mask makes my voice deeper, more distorted, when I speak again.

"You don't," I say simply, my breath coming in steady mechanical bursts. Hooough... hufff... hooough..., just like Darth Vader "But you also don't have a lot of choices. If you try anything, you're not getting the Jump, and I'm sure as hell not leaving the drugs."

The guy with the Jump stiffens, his jaw tightening. "You think you can just come in here and make the rules?"

"I've already taken Jump before," I say, tilting my head slightly. My lenses glint again in the dim light, and I watch his grip on his waistband tighten. "It takes a few minutes to kick in, right? You know that, I'd hope. I can't take it and get any powers without getting shot. You can't take it and get any powers without me shooting you. We're at an impasse. If you don't like my offer, just say so, and I'll leave and we can pretend this never happened."

The silence stretches, the air in the room feeling heavier by the second. They're processing what I just said, turning it over in their heads, and I can see the cracks forming. Doubt is a beautiful thing. Once it's there, it spreads like mold.

But then the guy does exactly what I was hoping he wouldn't do.

He pulls his gun.

"No," he says, leveling it at me. His voice is steady, but his hand isn't. "I don't think there's an impasse. I think you brought us a bag of free shit, and now you're gonna drop it and walk out of here."

The others tense up, their eyes darting between me and the gun. The girl on the couch looks like she's waiting for an excuse to lunge, and the guy closest to the door shifts his weight like he's considering running. All of them are on edge, their instincts kicking into overdrive.

I raise my hands slowly, palms out, my body language screaming surrender. "Alright," I say, my voice calm but just a little louder now, cutting through the tension like a knife. "You've got me. No need to make this messy."

But it's already messy. And it's about to get worse.

Call a doctor - but not for me.

The tiniest hiss escapes from my hands as I start releasing the gas. Carbon monoxide, colorless, odorless, creeping into the room like a ghost. The hiss is quiet enough to go unnoticed, blending into the louder mechanical breathing of my mask. They don't know what's happening yet. They're too busy trying to figure out if I'm about to pull something.

"Just keep your hands up," the guy says again, his grip on the gun tightening. I can see the tension in his arm, the way his knuckles whiten around the handle. "And back the hell away."

I take a couple of steps back, edging closer to the locked door. The guy closest to the door blinks a little too hard, his movements sluggish. The girl on the couch frowns, her hand going to her temple like she's got a sudden headache. The room is too small - all the carbon monoxide is concentrating faster than it would if we were outside, and my powers are keeping me safe from hypoxia. I feel a little discomfort, but not what they're feeling.

Next addition to the mask - oxygen supply. Just to keep myself from getting winded. Note to self.