The deal goes down in broad daylight.
Los Santos. Right by the precinct, next to the train tracks—the kind of spot where you don’t ask questions. Static pulls up, smooth as always, no words needed. Just the drop. The weight. Pills, powder. Everything in the bag, no turning back.
I slide into the Benz C400, engine purring as the sun hits the chrome. This isn’t just another run. It’s the re-up, and we’re about to take it to the next level.
Static’s in the passenger seat, keeping an eye out. The tension’s real. Every corner could be the last. The city’s watching, but we’re already a step ahead.
