The back room was small, windowless. Dim lighting buzzed above, casting long shadows across the metal table where the dealer sat. He had the look of a man who'd seen enough to think himself untouchable—slicked-back hair, an expensive watch, and the kind of smirk that said he believed he had the upper hand.
Anthony sat across from him, leaning back in his chair, feet kicked up on the table like he was just here to pass the time. The casual posture was deliberate. It disarmed people, made them think he wasn't a threat. But I knew better.
"Let's make this easy," Anthony started, spinning a stray bullet between his fingers. "We're looking for the prototypes. We know you're not the source. Who is?"
The dealer smirked, shaking his head. "You think I'm just gonna hand that over?" He gestured lazily. "You boys aren't the first to come asking. You sure as hell won't be the last."
Anthony clicked his tongue. "See, that's what I love about guys like you. Always so damn predictable."
