Ghost Archipelago
You are Matulo, a brilliant but underappreciated chemistry teacher at a failing public school. After receiving a terminal diagnosis, desperation leads you down a dark path: using your scientific knowledge to manufacture illegal drugs. Your goal? To leave a legacy and provide for your family before your time runs out.
But in this dangerous underworld, every decision comes with a price. Between violent gangs, law enforcement, and increasingly unstable partners, you begin to lose yourself in your own creation.
Your intelligence can make or break everyone around you.
How far will you go to protect your loved ones? And who will you become in the process? The sterile hum of the classroom's fluorescent lights buzzes overhead as you straighten your tie in the dusty mirror hanging in the teacher's lounge. Outside, teenagers shuffle past in ill-fitting uniforms, their voices muted by thick concrete walls. You can hear the distant clang of a metal chair scraping against linoleum as one of your colleagues lectures in the next room.
Your reflection stares back at you—haggard, hollow-eyed. The doctors' words echo in your mind: Six months. Maybe a year if you're lucky. Your wife's face flashes in your memory, the worry lines deepening as she brushes her hands over the worn fabric of her housedress, smoothing wrinkles that don't exist. Your fingers tighten around the cracked frame of the mirror. The edges dig into your palms as you take in the reality of your situation: a dying man with a dying career. The school's budget cuts last year had ensured that. No raises. No supplies. No respect. Just a handful of students who still bothered to show up.
And now this.
The terminal diagnosis presses down on you like a physical weight. You haven't told your wife yet. You haven't told anyone. But there's no escaping the cold, undeniable truth: you're running out of time.
A sharp knock at the door shatters your thoughts. Before you can answer, it swings open. Ivan strides in like he owns the place, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the doorframe. His dark hair is buzzed short, the kind of look that makes him seem both disciplined and threatening. The tattoos creeping up his neck are new—fresh ink, still reddened around the edges.
"Matulo." He speaks in a low rumble. His gaze darts around the empty lounge before settling back on you. "You're looking like shit."
You release the mirror frame and straighten your posture. "Ivan." His presence here—now—feels deliberate. Purposeful. He's never come to see you at work before. "What are you doing here?" Ivan shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot, the thud swallowed by the distant drone of students moving through the hallways. He doesn't sit. He doesn't need to—he already commands the space, his wide frame blocking any path toward the exit.
"I heard you're sick." His tone carries no emotion, no concern. Just a statement of fact.
Your stomach tightens. You hadn't wanted this news to spread so quickly. "Who told you?"
Ivan shrugs. "Doesn't matter. People talk." His dark eyes narrow slightly. "They say you're dying."
You swallow hard. The words hang between you like a noose. You don't answer. Ivan doesn't need one. He knows.
He leans against the counter, arms crossing over his broad chest. His face is unreadable, but there's something calculating in the way he watches you. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker faintly, casting sharp shadows across the stubble on his jaw.
"You ever think about what happens when you're gone?" he asks finally.
Your fingers curl into fists. "What do you mean?"
Ivan tilts his head slightly, watching your reaction. "To your family. Your wife. Your kid." He pauses, lets the words settle. "You think they'll be alright when you're not here to take care of them?"
w_comment
You say "I think they will get worse than they already are."
Ivan exhales through his nose, something like amusement flickering across his face. He pushes off the counter, closing the distance between you in a few heavy steps. His presence is suffocating—woodsmoke and faint metallic notes clinging to his clothes.
"That's a damn shame." He speaks quietly, but there's no mistaking the undercurrent of something else. "You always had good hands, Matulo. Good head on your shoulders." His gaze drops to the teacher's desk where a half-used pencil rolls toward the edge. "Wasted on this dump."
You don't flinch as he leans in, invading your space with the confidence of someone who's survived the worst parts of life and knows it.
w_comment
You say "So will you explain to me why you are here?"
Ivan's smirk widens, his face splitting into something predatory. "Direct. I like that." He leans against the teacher's desk, making it creak ominously under his weight. His fingers drum against the worn surface, leaving faint smudges in the dust.
"I heard you're in trouble," he says, watching your reaction closely. "Cancer, right? That's a bitch of a way to go." His eyes never leave yours as he speaks, his words as smooth as poisoned honey. "But you got skills. Skills that could help you leave something behind. A legacy, if you want to call it that."
The implication hangs in the air like gunpowder before ignition.
w_comment
You say "It's offering a job that earns enough money to stop this disease?"
Ivan barks out a short laugh, the sound rough and humorless. "Man, you don't stop cancer. You just put it off for a while." He reaches into his jacket and withdraws a folded piece of paper. "But yeah. You could earn enough to make sure your wife and kid don't end up on the street when you're gone."
He tosses the paper onto the desk between you. It's a photograph—a laboratory setup, makeshift but functional. Bunsen burners, beakers, tubing. The kind of equipment you know how to use.
"This is what I need from you," he continues, his tone dropping lower. "You set it up. I bring the materials." His fingers trace the edge of the photo as he speaks, and there's something almost admiring in the way he looks at it. "You make it work. I move it." He looks up at you with cold, calculating eyes. "We split the profit."
You pick up the photo with a careful hand, studying the setup. It's crude but promising. The layout suggests he knows what he's doing, but the fine details—the tiny adjustments, the subtleties of temperature and pressure—those are the things he lacks. That's what he needs from you.
"You're serious," you say, more to yourself than to him.
Ivan watches you intently, waiting for something. An answer. A reaction. Ivan nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. "Serious as a heart attack," he says, though his words carry no emotion. "You know how to do this. You know the science. I know how to move product. We put our skills together, we both get what we need."
The classroom feels suddenly airless. Your fingers tighten around the photograph, the image of the improvised lab blurring as your pulse quickens. You could turn him away. Refuse. Go back to being the sick man with the dying wife and the uncertain future. But something in Ivan's expression tells you he won't let you walk away that easily. The photograph trembles slightly in your grip, and you set it down with deliberate care. Ivan notices the movement—of course he does. He notices everything. His face doesn't change, but his posture shifts subtly, his weight settling into the space like a predator testing the ground before an attack.
"You're scared," he says, and it's not a question.
Your throat tightens. "I have a family."
"And they're going to need money when you're gone." He moves closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough to make his presence undeniable. His cologne is cheap, synthetic, but underneath it there's something raw—sweat and faint notes of motor oil.
w_comment
You say "Well, I accept it, it's all or nothing, if I close it, I accept it and I'm going to die anyway."
Ivan's eyes flicker with something like approval. He straightens up, nodding slowly. "That's what I needed to hear." There's a roughness to his words, but beneath it is a current of genuine respect. "You always were smarter than most people gave you credit for."
He reaches into his jacket again and produces a small black notebook. Flipping it open, he taps a page where a series of numbers and addresses are written in precise, tight handwriting. Your chemistry teacher's eyes catch the significance—coordinates, likely of abandoned buildings or storage units. He's planned this already. He wasn't just fishing.
"This is where we'll set up," he says, tapping one particular address.
w_comment
You say "When can we start?"
Ivan's grin widens, revealing slightly crooked teeth. "Now," he says simply. "There's no time to waste." He flips the notebook shut and tucks it away, then reaches into his pocket again. This time he produces a folded stack of cash—thick, the edges crisp and new. He tosses it onto the desk in front of you.
"Start-up money," he says. "First payment. Fifty grand." His gaze stays locked on yours as he watches you process this. "You'll need supplies, right? Chemicals, equipment?" His hand remains hovering near the money, as if daring you to snatch it up. "This is just the beginning."
w_comment
You say "Okay, so let's get to work cooking for more money and less talk because time is money, let's go"
Ivan's smile turns sharp at the edges, something almost predatory in the way he watches you now. "That's the spirit." He snatches up the money and tucks it away before you can even touch it. "First things first—we need a lab. That means a safe space."
He steps closer, lowering his words. "Somewhere quiet, somewhere no one looks twice at a few fumes in the air." His gaze narrows slightly. "I know a place. Old abandoned warehouse on the edge of town. Used to be a mechanic shop before it went under. Still got some good ventilation."
You nod, already running calculations in your head. Ivan pulls out his phone, swipes through a few screens, and turns it toward you. The image shows a squat, rust-streaked building with its windows boarded over. Graffiti covers the walls in uneven streaks of black and red.
"Perfect," you murmur. The space is large enough to set up multiple stations, the roof still intact, and the layout suggests there's a back entrance.
Ivan's fingers tap against the side of his phone. "We move tonight. Less eyes on the street after dark." He watches you carefully, gauging your reaction. "You need to know how this works. I don't babysit. I don't hold hands. You screw up, I walk." You nod once, the weight of his words settling in your chest. Ivan studies you for a long moment before giving a short nod of his own, satisfied. He tucks his phone away and gestures toward the door.
"Meet me at the old gas station on 2nd and Elm in two hours," he says. "Bring your chemistry bag. We'll drive out together." His eyes flick to the clock on the wall—3:37 PM. "Don't be late."
You push yourself up from the desk, suddenly aware of how heavy your limbs feel. The reality of what you've just agreed to hits you fully now. Ivan moves to the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "Oh," he adds, his smirk sharpening. "And don't look so damn nervous. You're not some kid walking into his first deal." He pauses, studying you with an appraising gaze. "You're better than that. Remember that."
The door clicks shut behind him, and for a moment, all you can hear is the hum of the classroom lights overhead. Your hand drifts to your chest, where the dull ache beneath your ribs pulses with steady insistence. The tumor. The clock is ticking. You close your eyes, steadying yourself, before grabbing your bag.
The walk back to your car feels like moving through molasses.