Jack trudged toward his apartment on Gumma Street, the weight of the gala's tension clinging to him like damp clothes, the mysterious envelope heavy in his pocket. The city's evening pulse—neon signs flickering, taxis honking, asphalt reeking of oil and grit—faded as he neared his rundown building. A group of kids played soccer in the street, their shouts bouncing off cracked pavement, ignoring him as always. He was invisible here, just another nobody scraping by. But fate had a cruel streak, and a wild kick sent a soccer ball crashing into his back, the impact sharp, jolting him from his spiraling thoughts about the FDCEA raid and H.U.N's shadowy game.
Infuriated, Jack spun around, his patience shredded by the day's chaos—Taylor's evasions, the FDCEA agents, the envelope burning a hole in his pocket. "Hey, watch where you're kicking!" he barked, spotting the culprit—a scrawny kid with a defiant smirk, maybe ten years old. The other boys snickered, their eyes glinting with the same disrespect Jack knew too well, a mirror of their parents' disdain, like Abdel's sneers at the coffee shop or the whispers that followed him on Gumma Street.
"Why'd you walk through when you see us playing, huh?" the kid, Rick Morl, yelled, his voice dripping with attitude. "Gimme my ball!"
Jack's blood boiled, his fists clenching, the memory of Abdel's sugar-dumping humiliation flashing hot. "Kid, if I come over there, I'm gonna—"
"You're gonna do what, huh, Jack?" A sharp voice sliced through the humid air, cutting him off mid-sentence. Mrs. Beller Ourha, Rick's mother, stormed forward, her mid-thirties frame radiating menace, her eyes narrowed to slits. The iron lady of Gumma Street, jobless more often than not, her resume a patchwork of odd jobs—more than the times she'd screamed at Rick for forgetting a chore. "Oh, I see what's going on. You think you're big now, Jack?" she shouted, her voice carrying like a siren, drawing eyes from nearby windows, neighbors leaning out to watch the spectacle.
Jack stood frozen, the envelope's weight a reminder of the deeper trouble he was in—H.U.N's quests, the FDCEA's presence at the gala. His anger tangled with exhaustion, leaving him speechless, his mind still reeling from Taylor's "fun" nonsense and the raid's chaos.
"Rick!" Beller barked, pointing at the ball near Jack's feet. "Go grab it. Keep playing, boys." Rick darted forward, snatching the ball, then backed away, staring Jack down, daring him to react. Jack's jaw tightened, but he turned, saying nothing, and headed for his building, the kids' laughter trailing him like a taunt, Beller's voice echoing in his ears.
"Now, boys, keep playing!" Beller cheered, her tone mocking, dripping with scorn. "Pass it, Rick! Yes!"
"Beller! Stop bothering my tenant!" Mr. Onan, Jack's landlord, shouted from his second-floor window, his voice gruff but firm, cutting through the street's noise. "I saw everything!"
Beller whirled, undeterred, her hands on her hips. "You saw what? Him threatening my son?"
"He didn't threaten that boy!" Onan shot back, his voice rising. "Leave him alone!"
Beller laughed, a harsh, manic sound that echoed off the brick buildings. "Wait, Onan, you call that—that loser—your tenant?" Her voice dripped with venom. "God forbid I ever get a peasant like him!"
"I'm done with you!" Onan snapped, slamming his window shut, the sound sharp in the evening air.
"Oh, you can't handle me!" Beller yelled to the empty window. "Living in the same dump as Gumma Street's number one nobody!"
Inside his apartment, Jack dropped his bag, the envelope thudding onto the floor beside it. He grabbed a glass, filling it with tap water, its metallic taste grounding him as Beller's and Onan's voices lingered outside. He gulped it down, a thought nagging him. "Why'd Onan defend me?" he muttered, wiping his mouth. "Guy's been hounding me for rent forever. Never stuck his neck out before." Suspicion crept in, H.U.N's shadow looming larger—first the paid meal, now this? His eviction notice still glared red from the doorframe, a reminder of his precarious life.
A knock rattled the door. Jack froze, peering through the peephole—Onan, holding a tuxedo carrier and a Gucci GG Supreme duffle bag, his face sporting a rare grin. "Rent again," Jack thought, bracing for a fight. "Who's it?" he called, setting the glass on a rickety wooden stool.
"It's me, your landlord. Got a message for you," Onan said, his tone oddly warm, almost cheerful.
Jack's brow furrowed, his mind racing. "A message? From who?" He unlocked the door, revealing Onan's unexpected smile, the tuxedo carrier dangling from one hand, the duffle in the other.
"Don't mind Beller," Onan said, waving a hand dismissively. "Thinks she owns the street." He handed Jack the tuxedo carrier. "Your friend dropped this off."
Jack's mind reeled—friend? He took the carrier, placing it on his threadbare couch, and returned as Onan lifted the heavy duffle. "And this," Onan said, passing it over. Jack grabbed it quickly, its weight surprising, nearly pulling him off balance. "Oh, and your six months' rent's paid. Your friend threw in a hundred bucks for me, too. Nice guy, Jack. Didn't know you had it in you."
Jack's jaw dropped, shock rooting him to the spot. "Paid my rent? Who was this guy? What'd he say?" His voice trembled, H.U.N's fingerprints all over this—first the credit card, now his rent?
Onan shrugged, still grinning. "Didn't say much, just left these. No message." He paused, his eyes twinkling. "My wife's making milkshakes. Want some?"
Jack's head spun, suspicion spiking. "Onan's never this nice," he thought. "Poisoned milkshakes? Trying to get me while I'm down?" He forced a smile, shaking his head. "No thanks, I'm good."
"If you say so," Onan said, heading upstairs. "Enjoy your evening, Jack."
Alone, Jack unzipped the duffle, revealing a sleek laptop with a DVD slot. "Makes sense," he muttered, recalling the Play Me tape from the locker. He plugged in his recharged AirPod, but the TV, left on, stole his focus. A news report flashed—Grills N' Grill, cordoned off with yellow tape, FDCEA vans and police cars filling the frame, their red and blue lights stark against the evening sky.
"That's the place," Jack whispered, leaning closer, his heart pounding. The regional FDCEA chief, Conna O. Kel, stood before a podium, her voice steady, authoritative. "We're making significant progress in our mission to eliminate illegal drugs from our region and country, as we promised our citizens. We've tracked this depot for months, right under our noses. Thanks to critical intelligence, combined with our ongoing surveillance and regional police support, we recovered nearly 16,000 kilos of synthetic opioids—the largest haul in three years. We urge residents to cooperate and provide…"
Jack's heart stopped. "Sixteen thousand kilos? Synthetic opioids?" His tip had triggered a bust of that scale? Not weed—cartel-level drugs. He pressed his AirPod, voice shaking. "Taylor, you there? That raid—16,000 kilos of opioids? That's not weed! What the hell did you drag me into?"
Taylor's voice crackled, startling him. "How's it feel to be the source of that intelligence, Jack?"
"I didn't even know you were connected!" he snapped, pulse racing. "It's overwhelming, Taylor. How'd you know about the drugs? Those bags weren't weed—what's H.U.N's angle?"
"You don't need to know," she said, her tone elusive, sidestepping like always, her Swift-like lilt infuriating. "Good news—you passed the quest! Be proud!"
"Proud?" Jack's voice rose, frustration boiling over. "You set me up to tip off a cartel bust! Synthetic opioids? That's life-and-death shit, Taylor! How'd you know about Grills N' Grill? Tell me, damn it!"
"Focus, Jack," Taylor said, dodging again, her voice calm but unyielding. "Those items from the locker? They're for your next quest. Dr. Perscal Churchill, HERGA Group board member and head of OxHealth Labs, is hosting a handover gala for his son, Arnest, taking over the lab."
Jack's eyes widened, his breath catching. "HERGA? They're untouchable—most powerful, most feared in the region!" His voice shook, the stakes sinking in like a blade. HERGA's reach was legendary, their influence woven into everything from politics to pharmaceuticals, whispered to bankroll cartels.
"Exactly," Taylor said, unfazed. "You're attending. The magazine lists the guests and HERGA members. Study it. Know their faces, their habits."
Jack gripped the Play Me tape, his knuckles white. "And the tape? What's it for?"
"Watch it," Taylor said. "Learn how to talk, walk, act like their class. It's got tips on HERGA members—what to say, what to avoid, to keep you out of trouble."
Jack's stomach knotted, his voice trembling. "This is a suicide mission, Taylor. Crash a HERGA gala? I'm nobody—no invite, no nothing!"
"It's fun!" Taylor chirped, her tone maddeningly light, as if he were heading to a carnival, not a lion's den.
"Fun?" Jack's voice cracked, rising to a near-shout. "You keep making this worse! A HERGA party? That's messed up, Taylor! There's nothing fun about this shit!" He paced, the eviction notice glaring from the door, Abdel's laughter and Beller's taunts echoing in his head, now joined by the FDCEA's raid and H.U.N's games.
"You'll be fine," Taylor said, her laughter soft, evasive. "Follow the plan."
Jack tossed the AirPod onto the couch, his head spinning. He popped the tape into the laptop, the distorted voice from before filling the room: "Jack, the gala is critical. Deliver the envelope to Perscal Churchill. Blend in. Deviate, and consequences follow." The screen showed clips of high-society etiquette—how to hold a glass, how to nod at the right moment—intercut with grainy photos of HERGA members, their names and roles flashing: Perscal Churchill, Arnest Churchill, others tied to OxHealth Labs, rumored to produce more than just legal drugs. The screen cut to black, the words consequences follow burning in his mind.
Jack leaned back, his hands shaking. The FDCEA's raid wasn't about weed—it was a DEA-style operation, likely backed by months of wiretaps, undercover informants, and surveillance, targeting a synthetic opioid pipeline. H.U.N's knowledge—Abdel, the van, the exact timing—suggested they had their own network, rivaling the feds' investigative techniques, positioning him as a courier in a high-stakes chess game. Was the envelope tied to the raid? A payoff? Evidence? His mind raced, distrust of Taylor and H.U.N deepening.
---
The next morning, Jack bolted awake, panic seizing him. "The car!" he yelled, realizing he hadn't returned the Jaguar to Taylor's instructed address—103 Barabel Avenue, Kings Garden. He checked his phone—7:15 a.m. "Delivered at 8 p.m. last night," he muttered, calculating. "Twenty-four hours… less than forty minutes left!"
"Oh shit!" he shouted, leaping from bed, waking Pearl and Kinki, two women from the gala still sprawled across his sheets, their presence a hazy reminder of last night's whirlwind. "What's wrong?" Kinki asked, her voice groggy, mascara smudged.
Jack ignored her, pacing, his worn Yeezy Boosts scuffing the floor. "I can make it," he said, then faltered, slumping onto a sofa chair by the balcony's glass door. "No, I can't!" He scratched his hair, devastated, the weight of H.U.N's "consequences" crushing him. Pearl and Kinki watched silently, their eyes wary, sensing his panic.
An idea struck like a spark. He dialed the Blue Steel Hotel, his fingers fumbling. "Is this Blue Steel?" he asked, voice trembling with urgency.
"Yes, sir. How may I assist?" the attendant replied, his tone professional.
"I stayed in VIP suite 6B last night till 11 p.m.," Jack said, rushing. "You remember me?"
"Yes, sir, and thanks for the tip," the attendant said warmly.
"I need a favor—urgent," Jack said, fear lacing his words. "Deliver the car I came in—a red 2019 Jaguar F-Type convertible—to 103 Barabel Avenue, Kings Garden. Immediately."
"Noted, sir," the attendant said, scribbling. "The address is 103 Barabel Avenue?"
"Yes," Jack confirmed, repeating it. "The valet gave you the key, right?"
"Yes, sir, the key's with me," the attendant assured.
"It's gotta be there in twenty minutes," Jack stressed, his voice cracking. "Please, notify me when it's done."
"You have my word," the attendant said, sensing the gravity. "I'll send someone now."
"Thank you," Jack said, relief washing over him, though his pulse still raced. He hung up, checking the time—7:23 a.m. "Time's running out," he muttered, the FDCEA's raid and H.U.N's cryptic warnings colliding in his mind. The car was a loose end, possibly tracked by the FDCEA's DEA-style asset forfeiture tactics, and failing Taylor's instructions could mean exposure—or worse. He had to move fast, get to the gala, deliver the envelope, and stay out of the feds' crosshairs, all while unraveling H.U.N's true game.