Chapter 2 The gas station is dimly lit, flickering yellow under the sodium-vapor lamps. You pull up at the curb, parking beside Ivan's rusted-out sedan. He leans against it, arms crossed, watching you approach. His face remains impassive, but his eyes glint with something unreadable. He straightens as you near.
"You made it," he says, voice flat. It isn't a compliment. It's a fact.
You don't respond, just nod toward the passenger door of his car. He shrugs, unlocking it with a beep of his keys. The interior smells like old cigarettes and fast food wrappers. Ivan starts the car with a rough turn of the key, the engine coughing to life with a series of misfires. He glances at you as he pulls out onto the road, eyes flicking down to the bag in your lap before returning to the street. "Hope you brought what we need," he says, shifting gears with a clunk. "I ain't running this errand twice."
The drive takes about twenty minutes, the city giving way to the outskirts where empty lots and boarded-up buildings multiply. You watch the streets carefully, noting the few other cars moving at this hour. Most people are home. Some aren't. The warehouse looms ahead, a squat, brick monolith with half-broken windows reflecting the streetlights. Ivan kills the engine and steps out without a word, walking toward the building with a slow, deliberate stride. You follow, the pavement beneath your feet cracked and uneven. The smell of old oil and damp concrete clings to the air.
Ivan produces a key from his pocket, sliding it into the lock of a side door. It twists with a squeal of rusted metal, and he pushes inside. The interior is dark, but not completely black—streaks of light seep through the boarded windows, revealing dust floating in the stale air.
w_comment
You say "Do you have any suppliers or customers to sell to after the job is done?"
Ivan lets out a low chuckle as he steps deeper into the warehouse, the sound echoing slightly in the empty space. He doesn't turn as he moves, his boots scuffing against the dust-covered concrete floor. "Suppliers? Sure. Couple guys I work with," he says. "You don't need to worry about that part. I handle it."
He stops near a corroded workbench and gestures vaguely at the space around him. "But customers? Now that's where it gets interesting." He finally looks at you, his face caught in the faint glow from the streetlights outside. "See, people like us—we don't have customers. We have buyers. And buyers change. They test you."
w_comment
You say "What difference ?"
Ivan exhales sharply, shaking his head as he leans back against the workbench. The metal groans under his weight, dust trickling down in slow streams. He crosses his arms, watching you with something between amusement and irritation.
"You really don't know, do you?" he mutters. Then, louder: "Buyers test you because they don't trust you. Not yet. If they're paying big money, they want to make sure they're not wasting it on some amateur who's gonna get busted in a week." He taps a finger against his bicep, punctuating his words. "First few times, they might ask for samples. Try to run their own little quality checks."