Page 33 of Overdose

Didn’t show?

That’s not like my guy. He’s late sometimes, sure. But never absent. Never without calling. Never when a haul this size is on the line. Especially not with Dante waiting.

Fuck.

“I’m heading to the motel now,” I say, voice clipped, pulse kicking harder.

“You better hope he’s there.”

Click.

The line goes dead.

I stare at the screen for a second longer than I should, then shove the phone into my pocket, jaw tight. Four thousand tabs. That’s not a casual drop, that’s a goddamn pipeline. Enough to fuel the club scene for a month, easy. Enough to piss off people way meaner than Dante if they don’t get their cut.

I grab my helmet off the handlebars, jaw clenched tight as I shove it down over my head. The visor snaps shut with a hiss. Gloves come next—leather, fingerless, worn in just right—pulled tight over knuckles that still sting from cracking against Noir’s face.

I thumb the ignition and the matte black 2022 Yamaha MT-10 snarls to life beneath me, custom-modded with blood money and rage. The engine growls, deep and guttural, like it’s starving for carnage. I twist the throttle once, hard. The revpunches through the night air, sharp and violent, like a warning shot no one asked for. Then I’m gone.

Gravel spits behind me as I peel out, tires chewing up the road, red lights nothing but smears in my peripheral. Wind claws at my jacket, but I’m locked in, laser-focused. Every thought slams into the same wall.

If he ghosted me, he’s fucking dead.

I take the coastal road fast, the wind ripping past me as the city blurs, salt air biting at my skin. I know before I arrive that something’s wrong. The sign flickers above the roof—La Sirena del Mar.

Cute name for a shitshow of a place. Stucco cracked. Sand in the parking lot. Neon casting everything in sick pink glow.

Room eight.

Door cracked open.

I step inside, one hand already reaching under my jacket for the piece tucked in my waistband. The door swings shut behind me, but the click barely registers over the static in my head.

The smell hits first—metallic and sharp, thick with copper and something foul underneath. It clings to the air, settles into your lungs. The kind of stink that doesn’t wash off. Not ever.

Then I see him.

My supplier. Crumpled in the motel bathtub like discarded trash. Throat sliced clean, ear to ear—one of those wide, wet smiles that never reaches the eyes. His don’t close. Just stare. Like he saw it coming.

Just not fast enough.

Blood coats everything. Walls. Tile. Pooling in the drain like the tub’s trying to swallow the mess but choking on it.

But it’s what’s carved into his chest that stops me cold.

A skull.

Not just any skull.

Myskull.

The Cyanide brand—deep, clean, deliberate. Etched into him like a warning. Like a fucking signature.

Mysignature.

I scan the room, pulse hammering. The bag’s gone. Pills too. Every last thing I left with him.

Whoever did this knew exactly what to look for. Knew it was mine, and where to find it.