The awkward silence was abruptly shattered by the simultaneous rasp of metal and plastic as both men drew their guns.
Fuck my life, one of the men lamented.
What had begun as a routine black-market deal—an illicit exchange between buyer and seller in a secluded spot—took a sharp turn when it came time for the buyer to actually buy. To be precise, to buy in full. He had already handed over the five-thousand-eurocoin advance, and the merchandise had been delivered amid easy-going banter. But when the discussion shifted to the remaining balance, the mood soured. The buyer dodged the subject with jokes and rambling tangents. Recognising the warning signs, the seller played along, humouring the act for as long as his patience allowed—until it ran out. The conversation stalled, tension thick in the air.
They stood in the gloomy, cavernous interior of a derelict nightclub, tucked away deep in Sutton. The failed venue, once a heavily leveraged enterprise, had been abandoned so hastily that the owners simply disappeared, leaving the staff to fend for themselves. Customers dwindled, employees drifted away, and no one even bothered to turn off the power. The result was an eerie space still illuminated by soft LED strip lighting beneath shelves, along the bar’s overhang, and in recessed grooves in the walls and ceiling. Occasionally, the old dancefloor projectors flickered to life, casting hypnotic shapes and shifting colours across the room.
Amid one such riot of strobing lights, the buyer broke the tense silence.
“Mate, just forget about it,” he declared, his voice dripping with forced bravado. “Here’s the reality, yeah? I’ve got the ID—thanks for that—but I’m not paying the rest. So you can just fuck off.”
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The seller, Emz, tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “The reality, mate, is that you’re a fucking idiot playing at being a hard man. You will be paying, and now the price has gone up since you thought pulling a gun on me was a good idea.”
“Big words from a little man,” the buyer, Stevie, shot back, his hand tightening on the grip of his gun. He stood only a touch taller than Emz, but the insult was delivered with venom. “You’re not walking out of here with another single fucking coin from me. Consider me not shooting you a win.”
Emz huffed, his tone low and icy. “I’m the real fucking deal, mate. You don’t mess with me.”
“Mate, running around town, handing out fake IDs doesn’t make you a big deal. You’re a delivery monkey at best.” Stevie scoffed, his tone dripping with derision.
Emz paused ever so slightly before replying with deadly seriousness. “So, what’s your body count, bro? I’m guessing you’ve slapped a couple of drunk guys who looked at you funny, but shit yourself the moment things got real.”
Stevie swallowed hard, betraying a crack in his confidence. “Mate, I’ve got real blood on these hands,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “Walk away, bro. Just walk away.”
Emz was about to deliver a final, scathing threat to end the standoff when a sudden, unfamiliar alarm sounded in his ear. He raised a hand, halting the tense exchange as he cocked his head slightly, focusing on the noise. The buyer stood frozen, his face a mixture of confusion and wariness.
A synthetic, posh male voice came through Emz’s earpiece. “Mr Emz, emergency! Come quickly. Asta needs you. Hurry!”
The cold determination on Emz’s face melted instantly into one of deep concern. Lowering his gun, he turned to the buyer. “Mate, you win. Keep it. I gotta go.”
Without another word, he spun on his heel and sprinted towards the nearest exit.
“What?!” the buyer called after him, completely thrown. “Mate, where the fuck are you going?”
But Emz was already gone.
