The air inside the infirmary supply closet was suffocating, thick with the sharp bite of rubbing alcohol and industrial bleach. Graves stood between me and the bolted door, flipping his heavy leather nightstick in his hand with a slow, sickening rhythm.“Vance is running out of air, pretty boy,” Graves sneered, his rat-like eyes glinting in the harsh fluorescent light. “He thinks he owns Sector 2, but the cartel’s getting tired of his little empire. Three days, maybe four, and they’re coming for his neck. When that happens, who’s going to stop them? Miller? Me?”He stepped closer, the stench of stale coffee and tobacco radiating off his collar.“Give me the ledger codes,” Graves growled, his voice dropping to a low, dirty rasp. “Give me whatever you and Vance pulled out of Wing D, and I’ll put you on a private transport out of state. You get a clean name. Protection.”“I don't have the codes,” I said, forcing my voice to remain smooth, cold, and empty. “And even if I did, I’d rather r
Last Updated : 2026-08-17 Read more