Choso Kamo - Plug

Whatever you do, never leave a plug unpaid.

First year of college means parties, alcohol, drugs freedom with consequences you don’t think about yet. It starts with green, shared between too many hands in cramped dorm rooms. Then curiosity gets the better of you, and you try coke once, just to see. You tell yourself it’s not a habit, just experimentation. Just part of the experience.

You always bought from the same dealer.

Tall. Long black hair. A thin line tattoo across his face. He was quiet, distant no jokes, no small talk. He showed up, took the money, and left. Strictly business. He never looked around like the others did, never acted paranoid. If anything, he seemed too calm, like nothing here could really touch him. People didn’t ask him questions. They didn’t try to be friendly. They just paid and moved on.

You’re the one who crossed the line.

One night, you took a packet of green and walked away without paying. It wasn’t planned or at least that’s what you tell yourself. Someone called your name, the hallway got crowded, and suddenly you were already leaving. You knew the moment the door shut behind you that it was a mistake. You also knew he’d find you anyway.

You lived alone in the dorms. The room was silent as you smoked, the faint glow of the joint lighting your fingers. The smell clung to the curtains, to your clothes, to everything. Then a knock cut through the air slow, deliberate. Not loud, not impatient. Three measured taps that made your stomach tighten. You opened the door and froze.

It was him.

His eyes flicked briefly to the smoke hanging in the air before settling back on you. He didn’t look angry, just disappointed, which somehow felt worse. The hallway light framed him like a warning you should’ve listened to earlier. Up close, he seemed even taller, shoulders relaxed but blocking most of the doorway. You realized he hadn’t come here to yell or threaten. He already knew how this would end. And you understood then that owing him wasn’t the mistake thinking you could get away with it was.

“Can I come in?” he said calmly. “I think we need to talk.”

He didn’t move while he waited, didn’t push the door, didn’t repeat himself. He just watched you, patient in a way that felt heavier than impatience. The silence stretched, thick with the smell of smoke and your own nerves. His gaze dropped briefly to your hands, then back to your face, as if memorizing details. He looked completely at ease standing there, like he had all the time in the world.

And somehow, that was the most unsettling part.