"Drop the gun, Kevin!" Michael, ignoring his own weakness, rushed forward to grab his brother’s wrist. "We have to call the police, or an ambulance! My God, you shot someone—"

"Call the police?" Kevin stared at him like he was an idiot and violently shook off Michael’s hand. "This is the fucking South Bronx! It takes the cops three hours to get here, and then they’ll just haul me in without asking questions. You won’t get away either. They don’t give a shit about ’just enforcement.’ You want Mom to come bail us out? Do we have the money for that?"

As he spoke, he nudged the robber on the ground with the tip of his shoe, checking if he was dead or alive. Once he confirmed the man wasn’t moving, he grabbed Michael by the collar with his wiry frame and dragged him into a nearby alley overflowing with trash.

"Oh, my dear brother, don’t be so naive," he said with a laugh. "You want to turn your life around and become a doctor? What’s the point of studying medicine in a place like this? A single junkie with a piece-of-shit gun can back you into a corner like a dog."

"No, it’s not like that," Michael yelled, his voice weak. "I’ll get you and Mom out of here. We’ll live the kind of life people are supposed to live."

"Oh, give me a break, brother," Kevin’s voice boomed over his. "Stop selling me pipe dreams, Michael! What am I supposed to do? Go wash cars? Work as a cashier? People like us have nowhere to go but the streets."

"Maybe school sheltered you too much," he said, shaking his head in disappointment. "This is a jungle. Some are predators, and some are prey."

He pulled out his gun and took a deep breath. "Admit it, Mike. Without a scumbag like me, our family would have been dead in the South Bronx long ago."

With that, Kevin turned and melted into the darkness at the far end of the alley without a single glance back at Michael.

He headed to their usual meeting spot. Scarface and a few other members of their little crew were warming themselves by a fire, just like always.

"You’re late, Kevin," Scarface said. "Something happen?"

"Nothing," Kevin said, unwilling to mention he had been saving Michael. "Some nigger tried to rob me. I put a bullet in him."

"Stay away from that area for the next couple of days," Scarface, the boss, said casually, then changed the subject. "Today, we’re discussing the problem with the coke market one street over."

"So we’re finally moving in on the Italians’ turf?"

"Boss, it’s time. I’ve been watching for a long time. No one has been able to take that whole street. The junkies in there are already starting to come to us to score. I was marking it up fifty percent and they were still fighting over it."

After the Italian dealers pulled out, a whole street of junkies had nowhere to score and were going nuts. Many were even risking exposure by going outside the neighborhood to buy from strange dealers.

A twenty percent markup, thirty percent, even fifty percent.

They’d do anything, as long as they could get a fix.

The surrounding crews had been drooling over it for two months. At first, they thought the Italians had pulled out because of a joint FBI and DEA raid, or maybe some internal struggle with other Mafia families.

But they held back for two months and nothing happened. Now, even Scarface was getting antsy.

This was a street that pulled in a million USD in net profit every year.

"Alright," Scarface took a deep breath. "Kevin, you go hang out on that street tonight. Test the waters."

The moment he said that, the other crew members grew disgruntled and started to clamor.

"Boss," one of them said, "is that really a good idea? Kevin’s the youngest one here. Are you sure you can trust him with this?"

Meanwhile, Kevin’s heart was pounding with excitement.

’This was a sweet gig. He could bump up the price a bit, or cut the product with some lime or pepper powder and sell it at the regular price. The junkies now were like sharks that had smelled blood—they didn’t care whose it was, they’d bite.’

"Shut up," Scarface said calmly. "Kevin’s not a greedy kid. I trust him to do the job."

He pulled a small, palm-sized square tightly wrapped in newspaper from inside his jacket. "Take this. It’s two ’bars’—0.2 ounces—split into 100 little bags. Go to the mouth of that street and test the market."

"And remember, Kevin, you’re just testing the waters," he said, staring intently into Kevin’s eyes. "If you spot any Italian lookouts, or see another crew staking the place out, ditch the product and run. We can always get more product, but if you end up in jail or dead, it’s all for nothing."

"One more thing," Scarface added. "Price it according to the usual rules. Since Fu said it sells even with a fifty-percent markup, you can raise it a bit too. Just don’t get too greedy."

"Got it, boss." Kevin took the paper-wrapped package, shoved it down the front of his pants, zipped up his jacket, and disappeared into the night.

’Fuck, New York winters are cold.’

When Kevin stood on the street—now a no-man’s-land—the cold wind whipped through the intersection, piercing his chest like the Grim Reaper’s scythe.

The moment he stepped into the shadows of a street corner, he saw several gaunt, zombie-like figures milling about in front of shuttered storefronts. Some were yawning uncontrollably, others had snot and tears streaming down their faces, and a few were hugging their knees, shivering violently in the cold wind.

Kevin let out a short, sharp whistle. It was like dropping a single drop of blood into a tank full of piranhas.

The ’zombies’ snapped their heads up, their hollow eyes locking onto Kevin. Then they rushed forward, surrounding him. If they hadn’t seen the gun in his hand, they probably would have swarmed him in an instant.