Chapter 2: First Deal
The duplex Jesse called home smelled like stale smoke, carpet cleaner, and the kind of loneliness that stains unevenly. The blinds were crooked; light fell through in stripes across a coffee table pocked with burns. A volcano bong sat like a pagan idol, silent.
Jesse opened the door without asking who it was, which was why he needed someone like Adam.
"Yo," Jesse said, hair flattened on one side, a hoodie hanging off him like a shed skin. "You brought—"
"Money," Adam said, stepping inside. "And a schedule."
Jesse blinked like the word was exotic. "Schedule?"
"To keep you alive," Adam said. He set a brown paper bag on the table. It thumped with the beautiful sound of stacked cash. Jesse's eyes tracked it like prey. "We're going to keep this clean and consistent."
Jesse snorted, but he was already smiling. "Clean," he said, gesturing at the coffee table. "Right."
Adam walked past him and lifted the blinds with two fingers, peering out. The street beyond was quiet; an old man watered a patch of dirt as if hope could sprout from it. He let the slat fall. "Where's Mr. White?"
"He's busy, man," Jesse said, a blend of respect and resentment. "He's got his, like, school stuff. And a wife. And the kid. And, you know. Cancer."
The word dropped like a brick. Adam faked a mild wince, the empathetic micro-expression that opened doors. "Right. We should move fast, then."
They did. The day slid into a choreography of procurement and sale. Emilio's absence was a shadow. Krazy-8's presence, a whispered threat. The RV was not an option for a meet; they chose, instead, a storage unit with a dented roll-up door and a broken lock that looked convincing. Walt arrived late, precise even in his lateness, eyes scanning, posture defensive.
"You have cash," he said by way of greeting, chin indicating Adam's duffel bag.
"You have product," Adam replied, nodding toward the cooler Jesse hauled like it held organs. He liked avoiding the word "meth." Language mattered; it shaped how you lived inside your decisions.
Walt licked his lips, a nervous tell he would later scorch off. "We lost a man," he said. "Emilio."
Jesse jittered, tried for a shrug that didn't quite land. "He was a dick," he said, then met Adam's eyes with a flash of the boy under the noise.
"Krazy-8," Adam said, letting the name sit like a test. "He's connected. Don't move alone."
Walt's eyes sharpened to points. "How do you know that?"
"Because I pay attention," Adam said. And because I've watched you, he thought, and I know where this leads. Out loud: "Because this isn't a corner game. You're in a cartel's peripheral vision now."
Walt absorbed it the way a chemist absorbs data: not with fear, but with the itch to solve. "What do you suggest?"
"Cash now, no credit," Adam said, ticking off points on fingers. "No phone numbers that lead back to home. We set drop points that change. And you two"—he looked at Jesse—"don't move together. You look like a teacher and a kid who failed his class."
"Hey, I didn't fail," Jesse said, offended. "I just, like, chose a different path."
"Congratulations," Adam said, deadpan. "You're on it."
They traded. Adam hefted the cooler, the insides clinking with carefully bagged blue. He nodded once and handed the duffel to Walt, who allowed himself a fractional exhale. Jesse grabbed one stack, sniffed it theatrically, and laughed. "Smells like freedom."
"Smells like dye and a cashier's hands," Adam said. He turned away, thinking sell 2kg meth.
[Asset recognized: drugs (methamphetamine), quantity: 2 kg.]
[Confirm sale for $100,000?] Y/N
Y.
[Sale confirmed. Noble System double-profit applied.]
[Proceeds: $200,000 credited.]
Balance: $300,000
It was like air getting easier to breathe. The color of the world nudged one degree richer. He kept his face smooth, because nothing good came from showing your numbers.
After, they retreated to Jesse's duplex like three men who had done manual labor in a dream and came home to a house that refused to feel clean. Walt didn't sit; he paced, hands on hips. Jesse flopped onto the couch and reached for his bong on autopilot.
Adam put a hand on the glass and slid it away. "Wait."
"Yo!" Jesse's eyebrows launched. "Boundaries, man."
"Bonding," Adam said. He pulled a rolled joint from the pocket of his blazer. It smelled like a college dorm on a Sunday morning. He lit it with a Bic that had outlived several owners and inhaled, then passed to Jesse, who softened instantly.
"See?" Jesse said, smoke ribboning toward the ceiling fan. "He gets it."
Walt made a face like the smell offended chemistry itself. He moved toward the door. "I have to go," he announced, as if they were his students and he the bell.
"Careful," Adam said, and let the weight of the warning be a gift.
Walt met his eyes, flinched at the generosity, and left.
"Dude," Jesse said, voice loosening as his shoulders unknotted. "You're like…are you a cop?"
"No," Adam said.
"Cool," Jesse said, trusting as a dog who has decided the hand is kind. "Cool."
Later, when Jesse went to the bathroom and the fan muffled whatever he didn't want heard, Adam performed his prank. He pulled Jesse's stash—sloppy, in a cereal box—and swapped it with a bag of candy he'd bought at a gas station. Hard sugar crystals disguised as crystals of a different kind. He left a note on the bag: Your product's sweet!
Jesse's yelp was a minor opera. "Yo! Where's my stuff?" He stormed back in with a plastic Ziploc of Sour Patch Kids like it was evidence in court.
Adam leaned back in the armchair and let himself grin. "Quality control."
"That is not funny, man," Jesse said, but he was already laughing, the kind that ends an afternoon on the right note. "You're buying me a new stash."
"I'm buying you time," Adam said softly, and Jesse quieted, hearing the truth under the bit.
That night, Adam lay on the sagging couch and stared at the ceiling's water stain expanding like a map. The system's ledger glowed behind his eyelids, patient.
Balance: $300,000
Strength: 1x
Stamina: 1x
Durability: baseline
He thought about Krazy-8. He thought about basements and bike locks and the moment a man chooses to break. He thought about debt and how to use it as fuel.
He turned over, satisfied that the weight of his pocket change made sense now. Tomorrow, there would be more. There would be a basement to avoid and a mess to clean. There would be Walt's careful anger and Jesse's sloppy joy and the soft ping of a ledger giving him twice what the world thought it could.
He slept, and dreamed of glass breaking cleanly along etched lines.