"One more," he coughed it out, a vapor trail in a wind tunnel. "Last fix. Swear to god."

  The needle, slicker than spit, did its jitterbug over the corpse-white of his arm. Yeah, right. A lie buffed smooth, a river-stone lie, a mantra tattooed under the skin. An itch only the point could scratch. This was survival now: the tremble and the steel.

  Sunrise through the window – a postcard of hope puked on by yesterday's grime. He'd be there, bones ground to dust, the taste of regret a permanent tongue-coating, mouthing it again: "Today's the fucking day." Prayer to a god with busted ears.

  Sun bled to black. The needle found home. Night, merciful blackout, voices dialed down a notch, enough to suck air. Control? Puppet. Strings yanked by the jonesing.

  Months, years – same damn lie. After this.

  Then the world went mute. Not just the blood-hum in his skull. The whole fucking show paused. Roads: empty veins. Office buildings: dead teeth. Sirens sliced the silence, the only tune. Sky, a blank stare now the metal birds were gone. Schools: tombs. Faces: vanished. TV: squawking about a bug. COVID.

  The world slammed the door. Habit cold-turkeyed. Dealers: ghosts. Streets: dead. No score. Fear, a grease-slick, coated everything. Even the junkies, his blood brothers in the slow burn, gone to ground.

  Maybe the universe coughed up a bone. A two-by-four to the head. A crack in the wall. This silence, this lock-in, a sign. Time to quit. Maybe. The thought: a shard in the gut. Had to grab it without bleeding out.

  But the monster inside? The teeth, the bottomless pit? It didn't give a fuck about plagues. It itched. Festered in the quiet, bloated on the silence.

  Chance? Felt like a noose. Reset button, bullshit. Veins spoke their own tongue, a scream that drowned out reason. Craving: not quarantined. Opera of need echoing off peeling walls. Day into night, want into more want.

  He hit the dead. Digital whispers in the void.

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  "Too hot," they coughed back, or coughed nothing. Static.

  "No drop. You fried?"

  "Don't call. Ever." Digital door slammed shut. Again. Again.

  Withdrawal, the snake, slid in. Fingers: dying spiders. Skin: cold slick. Voices, dull roar before, now whispers, slithering in his skull. Needed it. Air. Bones: hollow hum.

  So he did the months-unthinkable. Dug up cowardice. Dragged his ass to the corner laptop, fan a death-rattle. Screen bloomed sickly as he fumbled Telegram.

  Old haunts. Names scraped off tombstones. Dealers: OD'd meat or ghosts in the machine. He scrolled the list, a headstone roll call in a digital graveyard. Dead links. Dead chats. Promises: pissed away in the sun.

  Still, he clawed at the code dirt.

  Maybe one left. A spark in the blackout. Maybe someone still cooked, still dealt in the shadows. Maybe – just maybe – someone was strung out enough, greedy enough, to feed the hunger. Whatever the fuck price.

  Then he saw it. Buried in the sludge of a dead group, a message un-wiped. A link. No name. Just this:

  ?

  Private channel. The skulls. No faces. No lies. Just… static.

  He stared. The skull: a digital grin. His hands, shaking not from fear, but from the animal need, found the "Join Request" button. Click. The digital world held its breath. Arman waited. For the devil to slide open the peephole.

  Hours bled. Each one: grit under his nails. The request hung there, a digital sword. He hammered refresh like a woodpecker on a dead tree. Lifeline? Frayed thread over the pit.

  Then – flicker – it changed.

  "You've been accepted."

  No goddamn welcome. No rules in blood. Just… access. Inside: ghost channel. Two members. No chatter. Usernames: ¤ and ?. Meaningless. Empty. Like his quit-lies.

  Fingers typed without thought.

  "Got H? Can deal?"

  He stared at the black. White letters burned.

  Seen.

  By the glyph-thing ¤. Nothing back. Dead air.

  He waited. Minute stretched. Five. Ten. Legs jittered on the floor. Sweat greased his forehead, tasted like stale fear. Mouth: cotton-stuffed.

  Typed again, words clawing out.

  "Please. I'll pay. Tell me."

  Seen.

  By the other skull, ?.

  Finally, a chill-drip reply.

  "Yes. Got what you need."

  "Pandemic price-hike."

  Arman didn't blink. Fingers hammered the keys. Frantic tattoo.

  "Anything. Just name it."

  Pause. Long. Heavy silence. Worse than the jonesing.

  Then the reply. Blood-freeze.

  "We don't want money."

  Arman stared. Screen-glow in wide eyes. "We don't want money." What the fuck? Fingers clumsy, typed.

  "Then what?"

  Seconds ticked. Tiny hammer-blows to the skull.

  "Not sure you can do it."

  "Warning before start."

  Words hit like a gut-punch. Not a threat. Something else. A dare. A crawl-test. How far down?

  Stomach churned. Cold knot. Tiny cracked voice – forgotten shard of himself – a pathetic whine: Don't. Don't do this. Out.

  But the other voice? The withdrawal-rattle, the memory of warmth, the needle-silence? That voice: a roar.

  Hand trembled over the keys. Twitching thing.

  He could stop. Here. Now. Slam the laptop. Flush the connection. Scream till his lungs popped. Sleep a week. Maybe claw back.

  Instead, fingers moved. Two letters. Fate-seal.

  "Yes."

  Screen flickered. Unsettling blink.

  Then the reply. Cold. Final.

  "We'll begin soon."