"Zara...Zara!"

A voice, along with the violent shaking of her body, dragged her out of her slumber.

Her eyes opened groggily, and there was Aurora, her face a few inches from her own.

Zara's eyes flew open as, without warning, Aurora wrapped her arms around her neck. Although Zara attempted to push her away, she kept the chokehold with her eyes squeezed shut, giggling manically.

"Oh my God Zara! I didn't recognise you in that coat! I was walking by, looking for you, when I see this...this guy sitting up against the wall, and then—" Again with the yapping. What had gotten into her?

Zara slapped a hand over her friend's mouth and slowly wobbled to her feet, her head feeling like a frozen ice-block. Aurora kept trying to talk though, undeterred by her muffled speech. It was like listening to a broken record—she kept saying the same thing over and over again.

"Can you shut up?" Zara yelled, and Aurora clamped her mouth, feigning a zipper being pulled across her lips.

Zara scratched her unruly hair, ignoring the sad look Aurora gave her. She began to walk in no particular direction, not turning to see if her friend was following her or not.

"Where did you get that coat?" Aurora asked innocently, trotting up to her. Zara noticed that she too was barefoot, and that she looked even paler, like a white sheet of paper. She could even see the web of blue veins on her feet, which travelled up her legs and to the rest of her body. The girl was obviously cold, but was doing a good job of hiding it.

Without warning, Aurora stopped in her tracks. She bent over double and hurled, her body convulsing with the effort. Zara rushed back to her and pulled her friend's hair out of the way, patting her back as the girl vomited, over and over, onto the side of the road.

She must've taken something.

Aurora finished and spat on the ground, straightening and giving her a goofy smile. Zara recoiled.

"Did you take anything?" She asked cautiously, forcing her eyes not to narrow in suspicion. Of course Aurora had, the question was rhetorical.

Aurora's face blanked out, but then she nodded. It was so fractional that Zara would have missed it if she hadn't been directly staring at her.

Zara let out a loud groan and slapped her own cheeks with both hands. She dragged both of them down her face in exasperation, revealing the pink under her eyeballs. "What?"

Aurora made an "X" with her arms, and then proceeded to giggle like an idiot, like it was all just a game to her. Zara took a couple of angry steps away from her, but then walked back to Aurora, her finger raised with the intention to give her a piece of her mind. Aurora just stared back at her, her eyes wide and a smile on her face, so Zara closed her eyes and clenched her raised hand into a fist.

Reprimanding her would be pointless. In this state, Zara might as well have been talking to a labrador puppy—Aurora would listen but not remember anything of what would be told to her.

Zara couldn't keep babysitting this girl either, she was 18 for Christ's sake.

She still needed an answer to that niggling question though, "How much?"

Aurora raised a single finger, her eyes crossing as she brought it up to her own nose.

Zara let out a breath of relief. At least it was only one—there was no possibility of this going sour any time soon. It was a rave, after all, and candy always floated around.

She smiled, and the one on Aurora's face grew wider. Zara pulled an arm out of the coat and threw it over Aurora's shoulders. "Give me your phone."

Aurora handed it to her without thinking twice.

"Let's go home," Zara said, pulling up Google Maps on the screen.

-:-

Saturday was a blur. Both girls woke up in the middle of the afternoon, ordered pizza, then watched movies until deep into the night. Although Max had been in the back of Zara's mind for the majority of the day, it wasn't until Sunday that the itch to text him grew unbearable. She kept her phone in her hand at all times, and often found herself starting a message but then deleting it and reprimanding herself for coming across as desperate.

Max probably didn't even know that she had his number. Unless his cousin had told him, which was highly unlikely, then any message from her would be ignored.

Stop overthinking this.

Zara jumped on her bed and buried her face in a pillow.

She rolled onto her side and held her phone up to her face. Aurora, who was sitting on the floor with her laptop and music blasting in her ears, pulled out an earbud to raise an eyebrow at Zara.

"You should text him," She said, pulling the lid down. Zara lifted her gaze up to hers, then rolled her eyes.

"I can't!" She whined, kicking the air like a newborn, "He'll probably think I'm a stalker or something!"

"How can you know if you haven't tried?"

"I just know." Zara curled into foetal position, and rubbed her leg with a hand. Aurora seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, but then she pushed the laptop onto the floor and crawled up to Zara. She sat cross-legged, and smiled.

"What if I text him for you? Then you can take if from there..."

"No way. No fucking way." Zara knew the kind of messages Aurora sent. 'Hey sexy' and 'Hey hot shot' are just two examples of the plethora of embarrassing greetings Aurora had up her sleeve.

"Come on! This is the only time we can do it. You can watch me." She tilted her head to one side, that smile still on her face. Zara snorted.

"No means no."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"I said no!"

"I can go on all day, Zara," Aurora warned, flipping her hair over a shoulder.

There was no way out of this except for doing it Aurora's way. Defeated, Zara slapped her prehistoric tool onto Aurora's expectant hand.

"Wow, the last time I had a phone like this was in third grade," Aurora muttered, already fiddling with the device. She had the text box open and had turned her body so that Zara could look over her shoulder. She tapped her chin, thinking for the perfect opening, and then typed it in.

Hey, it's Zara. Just wanted to know how you were doing.

"That's something a grandma would say. Maybe add a smiley-face or something. I don't want to come across as uptight..."

Aurora backspaced and added the ':)' after 'Zara'.

She pressed send.

"Now we play the waiting game," Aurora grinned and handed back the phone. Zara squeezed her eyes shut and covered her face with both hands.

Hours inched by, and not a peep from him.

Zara had even switched on the sound of her phone and raised the volume to full capacity so that there could be no way that she had missed an incoming reply. She checked her phone at least a dozen times, but her inbox was as empty as satan's heart. Not even the movie they were watching on Aurora's laptop could take her attention away from it.

Hey.

Zara wanted to backflip with joy. "He replied!" She slid up to Aurora and all but shoved the phone into her face. But Zara's face fell as soon as realisation dawned on her. "I've waited for three hours, and that's all he could send me?"

She wanted to throw the phone at the wall...

"Just give it ti—"

A ping.

Sorry, been getting check ups, etc. Hard to text with one hand tho. How are you?

Zara retreated to a corner on her bed in silence, a lopsided grin on her face.

-:-

There are some places in this world where corruption runs rampant. Unrestrained, it infects even the most innocent of souls, prompting them to do things they never would've thought of doing before, not even in their wildest dreams. Some embrace this inhumanity with open arms, while others attempt to fight it; but in the end, they always succumb, damaged and defeated. Not even the law-enforcers can impede the spread of the horrible illness that affects with greater vigour the weak and poor. Instead, they prefer to turn a blind-eye to the heinous practices, in the hopes that they can live their lives unaffected.

Like they say, if you can't beat them join them.

A bar, hiding amongst the murky depths of Hell's Kitchen—the district itself was known for it's gang-activity—served as an example of this. The place was dark and seedy, unknown to the common-folk, but frequented by gang members, namely the notorious Jaguars. Within the invisible boundaries of their territory, other gangs did not dare set foot in it, for it would cause bloodshed.

Anything that happened within the bar, whether it be licit or illicit, remained between the four walls.

Seated at the long edge of a rectangular table was the boss, or the man who ran it all. He owned one of the largest drug networks in the state, maybe even in the country. He was so powerful that he could tap into any vein of the intricate web with a single finger, and so ruthless in the craft, that he was the protagonist of stories mothers back in Mexico told mischievous children to keep them in line.

The man went by many names, but was mostly known as El Tigre, or "The Tiger".

The FBI, however, had him identified as Joaquin Herrera.

Occupying the rest of the premises were his men, who were drinking, gambling, or playing pool. Their casualness was misleading; if they perceived anyone as being a threat towards their boss, their weaponry would appear from thin air and point towards the menace.

A row of sachets filled with a white powder sat in front of Herrera. They each came from various parts of South America, but had to travel a significant distance in order to reach New York. The possibility of being scammed increased with each hand the shipment passed through, so Herrera preferred to test their authenticity himself before he tampered with them and then leaked them into the underground market.

After running it through a 'tester' as they called it, to ensure that it wasn't rat poison, he dipped a finger into the bag and touched the tip of his tongue. Satisfied, he then tied it up and motioned to one of his men to gather up the rest and bring them out back, where the substance would continue its perilous journey.

After pouring himself a cup of whiskey, he intertwined his fingers together and placed them on the table. His hypnotic gaze landed on a subordinate who had been standing beside the table in silence, waiting for his boss to finish what he was doing before requiring his attention.

The guy knew better than to interrupt him.

"We have brought the carrier, señor." The man kept his head down, without making eye-contact. Herrera simpered underneath his thick greyish beard, and he scratched his jaw.

"Bring him in." He nodded, a bejewelled hand waving him off. The man inclined his head and scurried off.

Moments later, in came two of Herrera's man, the 'carrier' held tightly between them. The man was tall, taller than those restraining him, but a severe limp had him curved forwards, his dysfunctional leg dragging behind him. He looked so malnourished that his cheekbones showed underneath his grey-black facial hair. A shove had him stumbling forwards and onto the table with a loud thump, his head hanging low between his arms. Not once had he complained, not even when he straightened to look at his captor in the eye.

"Sit." Herrera gestured to the rickety chair across from him. The scrawny man hesitated, but then he slowly lowered himself into his seat, groaning at the pain that shot up into his leg. He made sure to keep it straight, so his body was angled so that he had his profile to Herrera and his elbow on the table.

"I have news for you. Good and bad news." Herrera's brown eyes remained on his victim, his hard gaze unwavering, "Pick one."

When the man didn't reply, he received a backhand to the side of his head by someone behind him. He groaned in pain, his shoulder inching upwards. "Good."

"The good news, Simon, is that production has started." A humourless smile creeped onto his face, and he took a sip from his glass. "Thanks to your valuable contribution, the revenue I will be making will cover more than that petty debt of yours. It will increase my wealth by a tenfold."

Simon's eyes flitted upwards, but then went down to a dent in the table.

He should've known better than to ask these people for money. Now not only had he endangered his own life, but also the one of his granddaughter...

"And now, for the not-so-good news." He paused for dramatic effect.

In the momentary space, Simon thought about all the things that they would do to him now that they had achieved what they wanted. He knew too much—the information he had given them was enough to make Rubair lose millions in revenue, and this vermin gain the same amount, if not more.

They would kill him, he decided, and dispose of his corpse in the Hudson River, where nobody would ever find him. Not that it mattered anyway, his life was worthless, nobody would miss him.

Except Zara.

What pained him the most was that if they were to end him right there, in that dingy bar, she would never hear his pleads, or a last 'I love you'. He was an idiot. He had been desperate to pay off his astronomical debt, and had been wiling to do anything to do so, without thinking of the consequences.

Who was to blame? Himself, of course. But right at that moment, he glared down at his deformed leg, the cause of all his ailments, and his financial issues.

The cause of his heroin addiction.

He wouldn't spend the money he earned at the company on drugs, that would be stupid, so he had to find another way to get it...

"Unfortunately, I will have to keep you out of sight for two more days." Herrera's raspy voice dragged him out of his self-deprecating thoughts, and his eyes widened in shock.

"But—but, you can't do that! We had a deal!" Simon banged his bony fist on the table, and that earned him a severe punch in the face, which sent him reeling. White spots began to cloud his vision, and his jaw pulsated with pain. He felt blood bubble up to his mouth, but at this point he didn't care. He just wanted to go home and explain everything to Zara and...

"But I can," Herrera said, his gaze darkening with sadistic pleasure, "I am the one in charge of this joint. I set the rules. Consider yourself lucky that I am in a good mood right now, or your brains would've already been decorating the walls."

Simon's lip trembled, and he bowed his head in resignation. Herrera watched him with a pitiful expression, like he was empathetic of the man's situation, "Once the Butterfly hits the market, which won't happen for another two days, you will be free to go."

He had been, technically, free. Simon was allowed to return home every once in a while, but only when his granddaughter wasn't there. And he had to be escorted by a Jaguar at all times, in case he tried to snitch to the police. Simon had been a precious asset to the Jaguars—his low-paying position gave him the chance to access the higher and more important parts of the company, more importantly the labs.

From there on, it was history.

"Until then..." Herrera snapped his fingers, and Simon was forcefully removed from his spot, but this time he wasn't just going to hang his head and allow it.

"Wait! Please...wait!"

Herrera raised his hand, and they stopped.

"Can I at least call my granddaughter? I haven't spoken to her in more than a week. She must be worried sick, I swear it won't be long!" Simon dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together, throwing what little remained of his dignity out the window. He just needed to hear that she was okay, that she wasn't still mad at him for having punished her. That she still loved him.

Herrera drained the whiskey in his glass and smacked his lips. He watched, with narcissistic glee, the underling bow down before him. If he hadn't done so, he wouldn't even have considered his pathetic request.

"One call," He assented, and a fixed telephone was brought to him almost instantly. He lifted the receiver to his ear, and hovered his hand above the keypad. Simon lumbered up to him, his face lighting up with gratitude.

"Thank you, thank you so much. Her number is—" His throat closed up with emotion, and his eyes glistened with tears.

Herrera jabbed it in, put the call on loudspeaker, and handed the receiver over to Simon after the first ring. "You have thirty seconds. Any funny business and you're dead."

Simon nodded frantically, praying that Zara wouldn't be thrown off by an unknown number.

After the fourth ring, her voice appeared on the other end. "Hello? Who is this?"

"Zara? I'm me, it's Grandpa!" It took all his willpower not to burst into tears right then and there, especially since Herrera and his men had their predatory gazes on him.

There was a brief pause on the other end, then, "Grandpa? Where are you? Is everything alright? I haven't heard from you in ages!" Concern laced her voice, and although Simon longed to quell it, he knew he had to stay strong. For her.

"I know, honey. A lot has been going on, and right now—"

Herrera tapped his wrist, indicating that Simon's time was almost up.

"I'll be back in a couple of days, I promise, but I have to go now."

"What? You can't go! Grandpa—"

"I'm sorry. I love you, please be good." Simon heard her take a shaky breath; at least she didn't try to argue with him.

"I—I love you too Grandpa."

A beep began to resound in his ear, and he looked at Herrera, whose finger was pressed firmly against the hook "Lovely girl," Herrera said nonchalantly, smoothening his beard, "It would be a shame if something were to happen to her."

The threat floated to the bottom of Simon's stomach, which clenched almost sickeningly.

"One word about this to her or anyone else, and you're both dead. Don't think I won't know, because I have eyes and ears everywhere. Do we have an understanding?"

Simon nodded, placing the receiver against the table.

"Take him away." 

-:-