Oscar left.

  The workshop went quiet again—just me, the bottles, and the hum of the hotplate cooling down.

  I should’ve felt relieved.

  I didn’t.

  I felt hungry.

  Not for food. For more of this. More of the feeling that came with making something impossible and watching it work exactly the way I designed it.

  Saint’s Swallow wasn’t just a brew.

  It was proof.

  Proof that I wasn’t Dimitri’s accident. Wasn’t a lucky scavenger picking through a dead man’s notes.

  I was a chemist.

  And I was good.

  The next week moved fast.

  Oscar sent word through Milo: keep making Saint’s Swallow. Clean batches. Consistent results.

  I did.

  Six bottles became twelve. Twelve became eighteen.

  I refined the process until I could make a perfect batch in my sleep—hibiscus steeped low, shungiku added at temperature, borage bruised and dropped while the mixture was still warm.

  Every bottle looked identical. Deep red, almost black. The kind of color that made you think twice before drinking it.

  Good.

  It should make you think twice.

  The ingredients weren’t cheap, but Oscar made sure I had what I needed. Milo delivered supplies without asking questions. The workshop started to feel less like a hidden room and more like an operation.

  I was careful not to let it go to my head.

  Careful not to forget that Oscar’s investment in me wasn’t charity.

  It was calculation.

  As long as I stayed useful, I stayed breathing.

  The second that changed, so did everything else.

  The call came on a Thursday.

  Milo showed up at my door before sunrise, looking tired in a way that meant he’d been up all night handling something ugly.

  “Oscar needs you,” he said. “Bring four bottles.”

  I didn’t ask why.

  I just grabbed my satchel, loaded the Saint’s Swallow carefully, and followed him out into the pre-dawn cold.

  We drove in silence.

  Milo didn’t offer details. Didn’t make small talk.

  That told me enough.

  When we pulled up to the laundromat, the public floor was dark. Closed sign in the window. Chairs stacked on tables like the world had ended and nobody’d bothered to clean up.

  Oscar was waiting in the back.

  And he wasn’t alone.

  Jake stood near the butcher counter, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked like a man who’d been chewing glass for hours and hadn’t spit it out yet.

  Four other men sat in chairs—spaced apart, not looking at each other.

  One of them looked calm. Bored, even.

  One looked nervous, hands fidgeting in his lap.

  One looked angry, like being here was beneath him.

  The fourth looked scared.

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  Oscar gestured for me to set up at a table in the corner.

  I did, laying out the bottles one by one, setting them in a line like ammunition.

  Oscar walked over, voice low enough that only I could hear.

  “Jake’s got a problem,” he said. “Someone in his crew talked. We know it happened. We don’t know who.”

  He nodded toward the four men.

  “One of them is lying. The other three are clean. I need to know which.”

  I looked at the bottles. At the men. At Jake’s face—stone-hard and waiting.

  “You want me to dose all four?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And if one of them refuses?”

  Oscar’s eyes didn’t blink. “Then we know.”

  I swallowed.

  This wasn’t a workshop test.

  This wasn’t Tommy off the street for two dollars.

  This was the family cleaning house.

  And I was the broom.

  We did it one at a time.

  Oscar called the first man over. Calm guy. The one who looked bored.

  “Drink this,” Oscar said, handing him the bottle.

  The man looked at it. Looked at Oscar. Looked at Jake.

  Then he drank.

  No questions. No hesitation.

  Oscar waited thirty seconds, then started asking.

  Simple questions first. Name. Position. How long he’d been with Jake.

  The answers came clean. Easy. True.

  Then Oscar leaned in.

  “Did you talk to the cops?”

  “No.”

  “Did you give them information about our routes?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  The man’s face stayed flat. “No.”

  Oscar watched him for a long moment, then nodded.

  “Go sit down.”

  The second man—the nervous one—drank without being asked twice.

  His hands shook slightly when he set the bottle down.

  Oscar asked the same questions.

  The answers came faster. Stumbling over each other.

  “No—no, I swear—never talked to cops—don’t even know what routes we’re running half the time—”

  Oscar held up a hand.

  The man stopped talking.

  “You clean?” Oscar asked.

  “Yes.”

  The brew made it impossible for him to lie.

  Oscar believed him.

  “Sit.”

  The third man—the angry one—stared at the bottle like it had personally insulted him.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “Medicine,” Oscar said.

  “Bullshit.”

  Oscar’s expression didn’t change. “Drink it or leave. Your choice.”

  The man’s jaw worked. He wanted to fight. Wanted to throw the bottle. Wanted to tell Oscar to go to hell.

  But he drank.

  Because walking out meant guilt.

  And guilt meant consequences worse than whatever was in that bottle.

  Oscar asked the same questions.

  The man answered through gritted teeth.

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “No.”

  Every answer forced. Every word dragged out like pulling teeth.

  But true.

  Oscar nodded. “Sit.”

  The fourth man didn’t wait to be called.

  He stood up the second Oscar looked at him.

  “I didn’t do nothing,” he said.

  Oscar held out the bottle.

  The man stared at it.

  “Drink,” Oscar said quietly.

  The man’s hands were shaking, but he took the bottle.

  Drank it.

  Set it down hard.

  Oscar waited. Thirty seconds. Then:

  “Did you talk to the cops?”

  The man’s mouth opened.

  Then closed.

  He said nothing.

  Oscar’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Did you give them information about our routes?”

  Silence.

  The man was using the only defense the brew allowed—he wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t answering either.

  Oscar leaned forward.

  His voice went calm. Flat. Final.

  “This is my question.”

  The air in the room changed.

  I felt it—like pressure building behind my teeth.

  The man felt it too. His eyes went wide.

  Oscar continued, each word deliberate:

  “Did you talk to the cops about our shipments, our routes, or our operations?”

  A pause. Then:

  “You have heard it. Answer.”

  The man tried to stay quiet.

  I watched his jaw clench. Watched him fight it.

  But the words came out anyway.

  Forced. Choking. Like his throat wasn’t his own anymore.

  “Yes.”

  Oscar didn’t react. Didn’t blink.

  “How many times?”

  The man’s face twisted. “That’s—that’s two questions—you said—”

  Oscar’s voice stayed flat. “This is my question. How many times did you meet with the police? You have heard it. Answer.”

  “Three,” the man gasped. “Three times.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “This is my question. What information did you provide? You have heard it. Answer.”

  The man’s hands gripped the edge of the table.

  “Routes,” he said, voice cracking. “Delivery schedules. Names of—”

  He stopped himself. Tried to.

  But Oscar wasn’t done.

  “This is my question. Whose names did you give them? You have heard it. Answer.”

  The man’s face went pale.

  “Jake’s,” he whispered. “And… and Oscar’s.”

  The room went silent.

  Jake’s expression didn’t change, but I saw his hand move toward his belt.

  Oscar held up one finger. Wait.

  He looked at the man.

  “Last question,” Oscar said quietly.

  “This is my question. Are you working for anyone else besides the police? You have heard it. Answer.”

  The man shook his head violently. “No—no, just them—they had my brother, they said they’d—”

  Oscar nodded once.

  “Five questions,” he said. “That’s all I get.”

  He stepped back.

  Looked at Jake.

  “He’s yours.”

  The man bolted.

  Didn’t make it three steps.

  Jake moved faster than I expected—grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the wall hard enough that I heard the air leave his lungs.

  The man tried to talk. Tried to explain about his brother, about the threats, about how he didn’t have a choice.

  Jake hit him once. Clean. Professional.

  The man dropped.

  Oscar walked over, looked down at him, then looked at Jake.

  “Clean it up,” Oscar said.

  Jake nodded.

  Oscar turned to me.

  “Good work, Garrett,” he said. “Pack up.”

  We didn’t talk on the drive back.

  Milo drove. I sat in the back with my satchel, staring out the window, trying not to think about the sound the man’s head made when it hit the wall.

  Oscar broke the silence.

  “You did exactly what I needed,” he said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “That brew of yours,” Oscar continued. “It’s not just useful. It’s clean. No mess. No mistakes. Just truth.”

  He turned slightly, looking at me.

  “I’ve got bigger problems than Jake’s crew,” he said. “Problems that need the same kind of certainty.”

  I looked at him.

  “What kind of problems?”

  Oscar smiled. Not warmly. But like he’d just made a decision.

  “The kind that come with ledgers,” he said. “And names. And men who think they’re smarter than the family.”

  He let that sit.

  Then: “I’m bringing you in deeper, Garrett. You ready for that?”

  I should’ve been scared.

  I should’ve said no.

  But all I felt was that same hungry feeling from the workshop.

  The feeling of being necessary.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m ready.”

  Oscar nodded once.

  “Good,” he said. “Because tomorrow, you’ve got two jobs to do.”