Jake Gillan

Jake clicked his tongue, the sharp sound cutting through the low hum of the engine. His eyes flicked to the dashboard—an accusatory orange light blinked lazily beside the fuel gauge, threatening to dip into the red. “Assign me a job and can’t even fill the damn tank,” he muttered under his breath, voice roughened by fatigue and smoke. With a resigned sigh, he turned the wheel, the car gliding through the dim streets before pulling into the glow of a lonely gas station.

The place was half-asleep. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting long, tired shadows over the cracked pavement. Jake stepped out, shutting the car door with a dull thud. “Full tank,” he said curtly to the young attendant loitering near the pump—a skinny kid with more acne than confidence. Without waiting for a reply, Jake slipped a crisp hundred-dollar bill into the boy’s uncertain hand. “Keep the change.”

As the pump began its steady rhythm, Jake reached into his coat pocket for his cigarettes. Empty. He clicked his tongue again, this time in irritation, crumpling the hollow box before tossing it into the nearby trash can. The familiar craving gnawed at the back of his throat as he made his way toward the convenience store.

A soft chime announced his entrance. The girl at the counter looked up, her voice dragging out a weary “Welcome,” that sounded more like a complaint than a greeting. Jake’s boots echoed faintly against the linoleum floor as he approached.

“A pack of Treasurer London’s,” he said.

The girl reached for the shelf behind her, sliding the sleek black-and-gold box onto the counter. “Twenty-five sixty-four,” she recited, eyes barely meeting his. He handed her a few bills, the crinkle of paper sounding too loud in the quiet store.

“Keep the rest,” he murmured, offering a polite nod before turning toward the exit.

Outside, the night greeted him with a chill breeze. He tore open the new pack, the scent of fresh tobacco rising up—rich, sharp, and comforting. His silver Zippo flicked open with a familiar click, the flame catching the cigarette’s edge. He inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke curl warm inside his lungs before exhaling a soft gray ribbon into the cool air.

The young attendant was waiting beside the car, grinning now with a kind of nervous pride. “Your car’s all filled up, sir,” he said.

Jake gave a brief nod of acknowledgment, slipping behind the wheel once more. He had just set his lighter back into his pocket when something unexpected drew his attention—a shadow moving at the edge of his vision.

Then, a hand appeared at his open window.

Jake stilled. The hand was slender, pale against the dark of his car. He lifted an eyebrow, lowering his sunglasses just enough for his sharp gray eyes to meet the stranger’s.

“Can I help you?” he asked, voice calm but edged with curiosity—and just a hint of warning.

Outside, the hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of the idling engine and the faint hiss of the cigarette burning between his fingers.

The day had been going perfectly fine. Almost suspiciously so, in Jake's opinion. The weather was pleasant, the roads were busy with the usual afternoon traffic, and for once, he was actually running ahead of schedule. He had an hour to spare before meeting Benille, which meant he could take his sweet fucking time getting there. One hand rested lazily on the steering wheel while his attention occasionally drifted toward the phone lying on his thigh. The screen illuminated every few seconds with notifications, none of which were particularly interesting, yet he found himself glancing at them anyway. Outside, the city was alive with its usual chaos. Pedestrians hurried along the pavements, couples wandered into cafés, and cars crawled bumper to bumper beneath the afternoon sun. Everything was perfectly ordinary, perfectly mundane, and perfectly fucking fine.

Until it wasn't.

A sudden, ugly clunk erupted from beneath the hood, followed by a violent shudder that travelled through the entire vehicle. Jake's eyebrows furrowed as the steering wheel vibrated beneath his grip. Before he could so much as mutter a curse, the engine gave another pathetic sputter, as though it were struggling to take its final breath, before falling completely silent. The car rolled to a miserable halt, leaving Jake sitting motionless behind the wheel, staring straight ahead through the windscreen with an expression of pure disbelief. For a moment, he said nothing. Then came another strange, metallic rattle from somewhere beneath the dashboard.

"...You're fucking kidding me."

As if the universe had decided that the situation wasn't already ridiculous enough, a thick cloud of smoke began billowing from the front of the car, gradually spreading across the windscreen. Jake stared at it with an expression of growing disbelief, watching the greyish haze curl against the glass like some cheap special effect from a low-budget action movie. It was almost comical, really, the sort of ridiculous bullshit that happened to some unfortunate bastard in a movie, usually right before the protagonist got dragged into a series of increasingly inconvenient events. Except Jake wasn't watching a movie, and the brand-new grey sedan currently dying in the middle of a busy street belonged to him. His jaw tightened as he watched another plume of smoke rise from beneath the hood.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

He shoved his phone aside, unfastened his seat belt, and pushed the driver's door open with considerably more force than necessary. The afternoon heat greeted him immediately as he stepped out onto the road, the sounds of honking horns and irritated drivers filling his ears. Someone behind him had already started laying on their horn, apparently under the impression that the vehicle would miraculously resurrect itself if they made enough noise. Jake turned his head just enough to shoot the offending driver a murderous glare before muttering, "Yeah, yeah, shut the fuck up." He removed his sunglasses and hooked them into the collar of his shirt before striding toward the front of the sedan, his expensive shoes clicking against the asphalt as his expression grew increasingly sour with every step.

He had bought the damn thing barely any time ago. Brand-new, pristine, not a scratch on it, not a single mechanical problem, and certainly not the sort of vehicle that was supposed to leave him stranded in the middle of the fucking road. Yet there it sat, looking as innocent as ever while smoke continued to seep from beneath the hood. Jake stopped in front of the car, planted his hands on his hips, and stared at it as though the vehicle had personally offended him. "This car is brand-new," he murmured, as if it might somehow hear him and feel ashamed of itself. "Brand. Fucking. New." He reached for the hood latch and released it before lifting the compartment open, fully prepared to discover whatever mechanical nonsense had brought his afternoon to such a miserable end.

Immediately, another cloud of smoke rose into his face. "Jesus fucking Christ!" He recoiled, waving a hand in front of himself as he stumbled backward, the acrid smell of something burning invading his nostrils and prompting him to cough and swear beneath his breath. His eyes narrowed as he peered into the engine compartment, though whatever he was looking at might as well have been an elaborate arrangement of metal and wires designed specifically to piss him off. Jake wasn't a mechanic. He had neither the patience nor the inclination to become one, and even if he had known the first thing about engines, he doubted he would have been in the mood to fix anything himself. He pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen, his irritation worsening when he remembered that he had a meeting to attend.

An hour. He was supposed to meet Benille in an hour.

His gaze flicked toward the road, where traffic was steadily building around his unfortunate little roadside disaster. A few pedestrians had slowed down to stare, and one particularly nosy bastard seemed to be making a genuine effort to get a good look beneath the hood. Jake gave him a flat look, his patience wearing thinner by the second. "What? Never seen a fucking car before?" The man hurried along, much to Jake's satisfaction. With a sharp exhale, he dragged a hand down his face and looked back at the smoking engine, contemplating his options. He could call a mechanic, contact roadside assistance, and spend the next several hours explaining how his brand-new car had decided to spontaneously combust on an ordinary afternoon. Or he could figure out who the hell was responsible for this little disaster.

His expression changed.

Slowly, very slowly, Jake's irritation gave way to something far more sinister. His eyes narrowed as a familiar memory crept into his mind, bringing with it the recollection of a certain individual who had been far too eager to assure him that everything would work out just fine. "Oh, you little fucker." The words slipped from his lips with a quiet, dangerous sort of amusement. There it was, the explanation he had been looking for, or at least the closest thing to one he could come up with. He remembered that cheap, shiny business card, the ridiculous promises, and the smug little assurances that there was absolutely nothing to worry about. Apparently, trusting the whole arrangement without asking too many questions had been a fucking mistake.

He should have known better. He had known better, actually. Some small, sensible part of his brain had warned him that the entire thing sounded suspicious as hell, but apparently, curiosity had won out over common sense. Now he was standing beside a smoking car in the middle of the fucking street, wondering how much trouble he would get into if he simply abandoned the thing and walked away. His gaze snapped toward the driver's door, and without wasting another second, he stalked back to the car and slid into the driver's seat. He slammed the door shut, shutting out the worst of the traffic noise, and immediately yanked open the glove compartment. Receipts, an old parking ticket, a packet of tissues, and, finally, the business card he had been searching for. Small, glossy, and offensively cheap-looking, it sat innocently among the clutter as though it hadn't just become the centre of his growing fury.

Jake picked it up between two fingers, turning it over once as he examined the printed number with a look of growing contempt. "You've got some fucking nerve," he muttered, his jaw tightening. He didn't bother saving the number into his contacts. Instead, he punched the digits directly into his phone and hit the call button, tapping his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel as the line began to ring. Once, twice, three times. His jaw clenched with every passing second, and by the time the call reached its fourth ring, his patience had dwindled to practically nothing. "Pick up, you son of a bitch." He was seconds away from hanging up and calling again when the call finally connected, and the moment he heard any indication that someone had answered, he didn't even give the other person the chance to greet him.

"Get your scheming ass over here right fucking now."

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