Lance sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as Dario padded anxiously at his feet. The clock blinked 11:42 PM in stubborn neon red digits, mocking him.
"Well, buddy," Lance said, slipping on his jacket, "looks like it's you and me for a little late-night adventure."
Dario's tail thumped against the hardwood floor, a hopeful rhythm. He knew something was up.
The idea of leaving the apartment this late was already irritating Lance. He didn't like going out after dark—too many variables, too many people who were either tired or drunk or both. Plus, his car was old, the heater was iffy, and the gas tank was only half full. None of that mattered enough to keep him from milkless cereal tomorrow.
He grabbed his keys off the hook by the door, double-checked the fridge—empty milk carton glaring back at him—and opened the front door.
The night air hit Lance like a wall. It smelled like damp concrete and gasoline, the city breathing low and heavy beneath the faint hum of streetlights.
Dario shot out the door like a cannonball, sniffing every crack and leaf like he'd never smelled anything before.
Lance smiled despite himself. "Yeah, yeah, go wild. It's just a milk run, not a safari."
They climbed into Lance's old Corolla. It rattled awake with an almost cheerful cough, like it knew it was about to be pushed beyond its usual limits.
The radio was dead static—no surprise there. Lance turned it off and settled into the quiet, the soft panting of Dario the only other sound.
The convenience store wasn't far—about a ten-minute drive through sleepy streets that felt like a different city at night. Most windows were dark, sidewalks empty.
Lance's thoughts drifted:
Did I really need milk this bad?
Maybe cereal without milk isn't the worst.
Why do I even eat cereal?
I should probably eat healthier.
A car passed them on the main road, its headlights briefly blinding. Lance blinked, focused back on the road.
The bodega looked exactly like every 24-hour store he'd ever been to: flickering fluorescent lights, stacks of dusty snack shelves, a humming refrigerator aisle, and that faint smell of stale coffee and old gum.
Dario jumped down before Lance could open the door fully, already tugging toward the automatic sliding doors.
Lance sighed. "Alright, alright, hold on."
Inside, the fluorescent buzz felt sharper, and the night clerk, a young guy with a cap pulled low, barely looked up as Lance grabbed a basket.
Milk was just past the chips, right by the frozen burritos. Half-gallon whole milk, two percent, skim—he wasn't picky tonight, just wanted the damn white stuff.
Lance reached for the two percent. As his hand touched the cold plastic jug, something behind the counter caught his eye—a folded duffle bag sitting suspiciously on the floor.
Before he could process it, the sliding doors blasted open again.
A woman burst in, wild-eyed and frantic, wearing a cocktail dress torn at the sleeve, her hair messy like she'd been running for hours.
She didn't see Lance at first. Her voice was low but urgent.
"Where is it? The—" She stopped, looked around, and then her gaze landed on Lance.
"You're not Rico."
Lance blinked. "Uh... no?"
Her eyes narrowed.
Before he could ask what the hell was going on, a heavy thud echoed behind him.
The duffle bag slammed onto the floor, spilling stacks of cash.
"Shit," she muttered. "Grab the car keys."
Lance's heart kicked up to a sprint.
He held up the milk like it was a peace offering.
"Look, I just wanted milk."
She didn't flinch.
"Now move. Or we both die."
Outside, headlights cut through the night like searching knives.
Lance glanced at Dario, who was suddenly alert, ears flat.
He barely had time to get his bearings before the woman grabbed his wrist, dragging him toward his car.
"Okay. Okay," Lance said, voice shaking but trying to keep calm. "Tell me what's happening. And maybe why I'm involved."
She pulled him into the passenger seat with an urgency that brooked no argument.
Lance's hands trembled as he slid into the driver's seat, the milk still clutched awkwardly.
She slammed the door, tossed a compact handgun onto the dashboard, and pressed a button on the key fob.
The Corolla's engine growled to life like an old dog startled awake.
"Who are you?" Lance asked.
She hesitated. "Name's Dani. And you, apparently, have something they want."
Lance swallowed hard. "I'm pretty sure it's just milk."
She gave a bitter laugh, eyes scanning the street behind them.
"Not that milk. The milk in that jug. You've been set up. They switched it while you weren't looking. And now you're the target."
Lance blinked. "You mean like a milk spy?"
"Exactly like that."
The woman didn't wait for an answer. Before Lance could even blink, she yanked him by the arm toward his own car like he was a ragdoll and shoved him inside the driver's seat. The cold plastic of the milk jug pressed against his thigh as he fumbled to buckle up.
"Drive," she barked, slamming the door shut.
The engine roared to life with a rattling growl. Lance's fingers trembled as he gripped the steering wheel, his heart pounding like a bass drum in his chest.
Outside, the night was suddenly alive with headlights slicing through the darkness—too many headlights.
A sleek black SUV without license plates appeared in the rearview mirror like a shadow stalking him. It accelerated, tires screaming in chase.
"Holy hell," Lance muttered under his breath.
"Next exit. Now!" Dani yelled, slamming her hands against the dashboard as if willing the car to move faster.
Lance slammed his foot down, tires screeching on the asphalt. The Corolla wasn't built for this kind of madness, but adrenaline kicked in—he felt every inch of the road through the steering wheel.
The black SUV closed in, a barrage of gunfire cracking through the air, bullets pinging off the metal frame of Lance's car. Dario whimpered but stayed quiet, eyes wide.
"Hit the next exit or we'll die with really boring last words," Dani yelled, voice sharp as a whip.
Lance took the exit ramp, heart hammering in his throat, wheels screeching around the curve. The SUV snarled behind him, engine roaring.
"What the hell is going on?" Lance demanded, stealing a glance at Dani.
She exhaled, voice tight but steady.
"I'm Dani. I used to work for a secret government branch that technically doesn't exist."
Lance's eyebrows shot up. "Okay... that explains everything?"
"Nope." She glanced sideways, eyes darkening. "I stole something from them. Something really bad. Like, if-you-drop-it-the-world-implodes bad."
Lance's gaze flicked down to the milk carton riding shotgun like an innocent passenger. "You're kidding me. It's in this?"
"Yep." Her eyes locked with his, full of a strange, urgent seriousness. "They swapped it while you were distracted."
Lance's mouth went dry. "Distracted by what?"
She hesitated. Then, casually said: "The milk, you dunce."
The road ahead blurred under the headlights as Lance processed that like a man trying to solve a Rubik's Cube while skydiving.
He swallowed hard, gripping the wheel tighter.
"I did not sign up for this."
Dani smirked, but only briefly.
"Nope. But you're stuck now."