Chapter 3 Koa
Koa
My boots plant on wet asphalt, and the kid’s face is pressed into the concrete between them.
His hoodie is soaked—spilled trash liquid, piss, old rain.
I can smell it from here, sharp and sour, mixing with the exhaust from the idling delivery truck two blocks over.
The streetlamp above us hums, casting everything in sickly yellow.
In the distance, locker doors clank shut, echoing through the service alley behind the rink.
Someone’s shouting about practice tomorrow. Someone else laughs.
They have no idea what’s happening back here.
My breath fogs in the cold, small puffs that disappear as fast as they form. His doesn’t. He’s holding it, like if he stays still enough, I’ll forget he’s there.
“If you can’t count to the debt,” I say, voice flat as the pavement under my heel, “I’ll teach you.”
I haul him up by the collar, fingers threading through cheap cotton that’s already starting to tear. His pulse hammers against my palm—rabbit-fast, desperate, the kind of rhythm that tells me he knows exactly how fucked he is. I can feel every beat. Thump-thump-thump. Pathetic.
I slam him back against the dumpster. His head bounces off the metal with a hollow thud that reverberates through the alley. A rat scurries out from under the dumpster, disappearing into the dark. The kid’s eyes follow it like he wishes he could do the same.
“Koa, man, I swear—”
I drive my knee into his gut before he can finish. Air rushes out of him in a wet wheeze, and he doubles over, gagging. Spit hits the ground between us, thick and ropy.
“Don’t.” I lean in close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead, the way his pupils are blown wide—fear or drugs, probably both. My voice is a blade. “Don’t fucking swear to me. Don’t say my fucking name!”
His teeth chatter. Not from the cold. The temperature’s hovering just above freezing, but he’s shaking like it’s January.
I dig into his pockets—left first, then right. Keys jangle. A lighter. Loose change. And then, finally, what I’m looking for. A crumpled ziplock bag shoved deep into his hoodie pocket. I pull it out, hold it up to the light.
The smell hits me before I even look inside. Cheap spice, cut with something bitter—maybe oregano, maybe worse. I weigh it in my palm. The plastic crinkles.
Light.
Too light.
I’ve been doing this long enough to know the weight of product by feel alone. This bag should be heavier. Which means one of two things: he’s been skimming, or he’s been using.
Either way, he’s fucked.
“Fucking junkie.” I throw the bag at his chest. It bounces off, lands in a puddle at his feet. “You’re done.”
“I didn’t—I swear, I didn’t touch it—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Oxy steps forward from the shadows where he’s been watching, leaning against the brick wall with his arms crossed.
He’s built like a linebacker—thick neck, broad shoulders, hands that could crush a skull if he wanted to.
He grabs the kid’s legs when he tries to kick, pins them against the dumpster with his weight.
The kid thrashes. His sneaker comes loose, skitters across the pavement, and disappears under a pile of trash bags. One sock is grey with holes. The other is missing entirely. His bare foot is pale, toes curling against the cold concrete.
Pathetic.
I pull his phone from his jacket pocket. It’s a newer model iPhone, cracked screen, case covered in stickers from underground bands. I flip it toward his face, wait for the recognition as it unlocks the phone.
The screen lights up.
Notifications stack up like a verdict. Text messages. Missed calls.
Lexi: I’m here.
Lexi: Where are you?
Lexi: Seriously, Ax. Where are you?
I smirk. Scroll down. More of the same. Needy. Desperate. Clingy.
“Who’s your bitch, Lexi?” I hold the phone up so he can see the screen, watch his face go from pale to ghost-white. “She owe you money too?”
The kid thrashes harder, tries to twist away. I press my forearm against his throat, let the dumpster do the rest of the work. His windpipe clicks under the pressure. Not enough to crush it. Just enough to remind him who’s in control.
“Don’t—” His voice is strangled, barely a whisper.
I laugh.
“She’s calling again.” I hold the phone up, let it ring. The name lights up the screen: Lexi. Then it goes to voicemail. “What a needy fucking whore.”
He spits at me. Misses by a mile. The glob of spit hits the dumpster, slides down the metal.
I laugh—sharp, cold, the kind of sound that makes people step back even when I’m not looking at them.
“Look at this.” I scroll through the texts, reading them aloud just to watch him squirm.
“‘I’m here. Where are you?’ ‘Seriously, Ax.’ ‘Can’t believe we’re going to the same college.
’“ I pause, let the silence stretch. “Jesus, kid.” I scroll through one long ass text message that I’m not reading.
“She’s pathetic. Does she always beg like this, or is it just for you? ”
“Shut up—”
I lean down, close enough that my breath ghosts across his ear. “You have an hour to get me my money.”
I let the words hang there. Let them sink in.
“An hour?” His voice cracks. He’s trying to sound brave. Failing.
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Instead, I kick him—hard, to the ribs—and feel the satisfying thud of boot meeting bone. He grunts, curls inward, and I follow it up with a right hook to his jaw. My knuckles connect with a wet crack. His head snaps back, slams into the dumpster again, and something wet hits the concrete.
Blood.
He slumps, barely conscious. I grab him by the hair, yank his head up so he’s looking at me.
“One hour,” I repeat. “Or I find your bitch and make her pay instead.”
His eyes go wide. Good. That’s what I wanted.
I release him, step back. Oxy does the same.
“Go.”
The kid scrambles up, slips, nearly falls, then bolts. His footsteps echo down the alley, fading into the sound of campus—music bleeding out of dorm windows, voices laughing, the distant hum of traffic on the main road.
I watch him go. Don’t move. Don’t blink. Just watch until he’s nothing but a shadow disappearing into the glow of streetlights.
Not satisfaction. Just practicality.
“You coulda offed him and been done,” Oxy says, shaking his head. He’s pulling a joint from his pocket, already lighting it. The flame flickers in the wind, then catches. “Dealer doing his product is a big problem. And if you just did it. He’d be one less problem.”
“Then who delivers tomorrow?” I grind my heel into the dirt, turn away from the dumpster. The alley stinks—rotting food, piss, something metallic. “Don’t make me start a body count on move-in day. We need workers, not headlines.”
Oxy laughs, low and rough, the kind of sound that only comes from someone who’s seen too much and stopped caring. “Fair.”
He takes a long drag, holds it, then exhales a cloud of smoke that hangs in the cold air. He passes the joint to me.
I rub my knuckles first. There’s dirt under my nails, a smear of something dark across the back of my hand. I wipe it on my jeans, then take the joint, inhale deep. The smoke fills my lungs, sharp and familiar. I hold it for a three-count, then let it out slow.
The tension in my shoulders eases. Just a little.
We move deeper into the shadows behind the rink, where the stadium lights don’t reach. There’s a spot back here—a loading dock that hasn’t been used in years, rusted out and forgotten. The perfect place to disappear.
I lean against the brick wall, feel the cold seep through my jacket. Oxy stands opposite me, still smoking, watching me with that lazy half-smile he always wears when shit goes down.
“We need to reconsider the supply chain,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice is steady, clinical. This is business. “Too many hot hands. Too many kids who can’t keep their mouths shut.”
Oxy nods, flicks ash into the snow. “You thinking the bus route?”
“Route seven. Two-thirty drop. Gym locker seven.” I tap ash onto the ground, watch it disintegrate. “Two-man only. No exceptions.”
“What about the new contact?”
“Unreliable.” I take another drag, let the smoke curl out of my nostrils. “He’s late twice now. Third time, we cut him loose.”
“Literally?”
I glance at him, deadpan. “Figuratively. We’re not animals.”
He snorts. “Could’ve fooled me.”
I don’t respond. Just finish the joint, flick the roach into a puddle, and watch it sizzle out.
My pocket vibrates.
I ignore it.
It vibrates again. Persistent.
I pull out the kid’s phone—Axel’s phone—and glance at the screen. More notifications. I scroll through them, cataloging everything.
Payment apps. Cash tags. Timestamps.
One notification catches my eye: a username I don’t recognize, linked to a bank transfer. The amount is significant. Too significant for a college kid selling dime bags.
I snap a picture of the screen with my own phone, save it.
“Name. Cash tag. Timestamp.” I tuck Axel’s phone into my inside pocket, feel the weight of it settle against my ribs. “We follow the thread.”
Oxy watches me, waiting. He knows better than to ask questions when I’m working.
A campus security cruiser idles at the edge of the alley, headlights cutting through the dark. The engine rumbles, low and steady. I can see the cop inside—middle-aged, balding, probably ten years from retirement. He’s staring straight ahead, pretending not to see us.
Smart.
But I don’t like being ignored.
I step into the light anyway, just enough for him to see me. I square my shoulders, let him see the blood on my knuckles, the coldness in my eyes.
The cruiser doesn’t move for a long moment. The cop’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. I can see it from here.
Then, slowly, the cruiser rolls forward. Turns the corner. Disappears.
Gone.
I smirk.
Oxy finishes his cigarette, flicks the butt into the snow where it hisses and dies. “So what’s next?”
I pull out my own phone, check the time. 8:47 PM. We’ve got hours before the next drop.
“Locker seven at eleven,” I say, locking the screen. “You go quiet, I go loud. Understand?”
He nods. “And the kid?”
“Let him run.” I shrug, already moving toward the mouth of the alley. “If he pays, we’re good. If he doesn’t...” I trail off, let the implication hang.
Oxy doesn’t need me to spell it out.
We walk through the side streets, away from the rink, cutting through campus like we own it. Because we do. Every corner, every shadow, every back alley—it’s all ours.
Students pass us on the sidewalk. Freshmen, probably, still wide-eyed and naive, carrying boxes and duffel bags, laughing about roommates and classes. They don’t even look at us. Don’t see us. We’re invisible to them. For now.
The bass from a campus bar thumps through the brick walls as we approach. I can smell fryer grease and bleach, the stale sweetness of spilled beer. The door opens every few seconds, spilling light and sound and drunk college kids onto the sidewalk.
We move past the front entrance, slip around to the back.
There’s a guy waiting by the dumpster. Bigger than Axel. Older—maybe mid-twenties. He’s wearing a leather jacket that’s seen better days, jeans with holes in the knees, boots caked in mud. He’s counting bills when we round the corner, licking his thumb between each one.
He looks up, sees me, and his hands freeze mid-count.
“Koa.” His voice is steady, but I can see the tension in his jaw.
I don’t say anything. Just hold out my hand, palm up.
He hesitates. Just for a second. Then he passes me the stack.
I count it. Slowly. Deliberately. Let each bill slide through my fingers with a soft whisper. He watches, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
Twenty. Forty. Sixty. Eighty.
I pause.
Ninety.
It’s supposed to be one-twenty.
I fold the bills, tuck them into my pocket, and stare at him. Let the silence stretch until it’s uncomfortable. Until his throat bobs and his eyes dart away.
“Tell your people,” I say, voice flat and cold, “I don’t do late fees. I do consequences.”
He nods. Fast. Too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll tell them. Won’t happen again.”
“It won’t.”
I turn and walk away, Oxy falling into step beside me. He’s grinning, shaking his head.
“You scare the shit out of him,” he says, laughing under his breath.
“That’s the point.”
We head toward the car, parked three blocks away in a spot that doesn’t have cameras.
The night settles around us like a second skin, familiar and cold.
Oxy’s still talking—something about campus rich kids buying confidence in bags, about the freshman parties starting up, about how easy it is to move product when everyone’s too drunk to think straight.
I’m only half-listening.
My pocket vibrates again.
Once. Twice. Three times.
I ignore it the first two. But the third time, I pull out Axel’s phone and glance at the screen.
Lexi: I can’t believe you’re doing this. You promised!
Lexi: I just got here and you can’t even bother to show up?
Oxy leans over my shoulder, smirks when he sees the name. “Girlfriend?”
“Needy slut.”
The word comes out flat, disinterested. I lock the screen, slip the phone back into my pocket.
We reach the car—a black Charger, nothing flashy but enough muscle under the hood to get us out of any situation we need to. I unlock it, slide into the driver’s seat. Oxy climbs in on the passenger side, already lighting another cigarette.
I pull out my own pack, light one, and crack the window. Smoke curls out into the night. I take a long drag, feel the nicotine settle into my bloodstream. My shoulders relax. My mind clears.
I already know where I’m going next. Already know who owes, who’s late, who needs a reminder.
I check my phone. Three texts from runners. One missed call from a number I don’t recognize. I ignore them all.
Money never sleeps.
And neither do I.
I start the engine, let it rumble to life. The bass vibrates through the seat. I pull out of the parking spot, headlights cutting through the dark, and drive toward the next collection.
The night is young.
And I’ve got work to do.