Meeting Marcus

Dylan sat on the edge of his desk, his fingers lazily flipping a coin as he eyed Clara, who stood by the window, dressed in a sleek black blazer.

Clara waited for Dylan to share his findings since he returned, but he had been silent and lost in thoughts, so she didn't try to rush him.

"Marcus Yates," Dylan finally said, catching the coin mid-air. "He's the key witness. I need dirt on him—something that makes him unreliable in court."

Clara smirked and leaned against the window frame.

"You want the truth or something that looks like the truth?"

Dylan's lips curled into a devilish grin.

"Both. If he's clean, we make him dirty. If he's already dirty, we make it worse."

"Consider it done. I'll dig up everything—criminal record, addictions, money problems, maybe even some personal demons." Clara nodded with a matching devilish smile.

"Good." Dylan stood, adjusting his dark trench coat. "While you handle that, I'm paying our witness a little visit… with some friends."

---

Marcus Yates stepped out of his rundown apartment, tugging his hoodie over his head as the cool night air brushed against his skin.

He lit a cigarette with shaky hands, trying to ease his nerves and then he saw them.

Across the street, three men in dark hoodies stood under a flickering street lamp, their faces hidden but their intentions clear. One leaned against a car, staring right at him. Another cracked his knuckles.

The third? He just smirked.

LNS cartel!

Marcus' stomach dropped.

They knew.

But how the hell did they find out?

His cigarette slipped from his fingers as he turned on his heel and bolted back toward his apartment. He nearly tripped up the stairs, fumbling with his keys. He had to get inside and call the cops.

He reached his door, but his breath caught in his throat.

Standing in front of it was Dylan Morningstar. Dressed in a black trench coat, dark gloves, and a low-brimmed hat, his face was barely visible under the corridor's light dim glow.

Marcus' heart pounded as he stumbled backward.

"Shit—shit—nah, man, listen—"

Dylan tilted his head slightly, his violet eyes gleaming under the shadow of his hat.

"Running is useless," he said smoothly. "The building is surrounded. You and I both know how this ends… so let's talk inside."

Marcus hesitated, but when he glanced back at the street, he saw more shadowy figures lurking in the distance.

Defeated, he swallowed hard and opened the door.

The apartment was a mess.

Stacks of unpaid bills covered the coffee table. Empty beer cans and takeout boxes littered the floor. A half-smoked blunt sat in the ashtray, the air thick with the scent of weed and cheap cologne.

Marcus paced, rubbing his hands together.

"Listen, man, I didn't have a choice, okay? I ain't some snitch, but I was in a bad spot. Loan sharks were on my ass. I needed the reward money!"

Dylan took slow, deliberate steps toward the couch, brushing off some crumbs before taking a seat. He reached into his coat and pulled out a thick envelope.

He dropped it onto the table. $50,000 in crisp bills.

Marcus' eyes widened.

"That's yours," Dylan said, voice smooth like silk. "And another $50,000 comes your way if you… let's say, become a little less reliable in court."

Marcus licked his lips, eyeing the money. His morals, if he had any left, were already crumbling.

"You mean… mess up my testimony?" he asked, voice shaking.

Dylan leaned forward, his violet eyes glowing faintly.

{Charm Activated}

{9/20 DF}

"Think of it this way," Dylan murmured. "You walk into court, stutter a little, mix up some details… maybe even admit you were high when you saw what you think you saw."

{Charm Activated}

{8/20 DF}

"Suddenly, you're unreliable," Dylan continued. "The case weakens. Malik walks free. And you? You walk away with $100,000."

{Charm Activated}

{7/20 DF}

Marcus' breathing was heavy, sweat trickling down his forehead. He reached out, hesitated for a split second… then snatched the envelope.

"I'll do it," he rasped. "Shit… I'll do whatever you need."

"Smart choice," Dylan smirked.

He rose from the couch, adjusting his coat as he headed toward the door. Before leaving, he glanced over his shoulder.

"Oh, and Marcus?" His voice carried a dangerous edge. "If you change your mind… let's just say the cartel doesn't handle betrayal lightly."

Marcus swallowed hard, nodding furiously.

Dylan tipped his hat and walked out.