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The two thugs ducked into an alley, shadows swallowing them as they slowed their pace.

One of them flipped the black card between his fingers, eyes gleaming.

“Damn,” the knife-holder chuckled. “This ain’t no cheap scrap. You see the weight on this? The shine? This is the real deal.”

The gunman whistled low. “Rich boy plastic. Bet it’s bottomless. First thing I’m doin’? I’m hittin’ that car lot down on 9th. I’m drivin’ out in a Benz before the sun’s up.”

The knife-holder barked a laugh. “Idiot, they’ll trace that in a second. You gotta be smart. Cash advances, withdrawals, quick spend. Me? I’m clearing every liquor shelf in the city, then hittin’ that casino across state lines. Turn this plastic into real gold.”

The gunman snatched the card back, eyes greedy. “Nah, I’m the one holdin’ it. I decide. Maybe we split—half for cars, half for play.”

The knife-holder shoved him against the wall, blade flashing. “We split nothin’. It’s mine. I cut the kid, I earned it.”

The gunman pressed the pistol to his chest with a smirk. “You try keepin’ it, you’ll be the one bleeding next.”

For a heartbeat, the alley went silent—only the sound of their heavy breathing .  Then they both started laughing, ugly and mean.

“Alright,” the knife-holder said, lowering his blade. “We burn through it together. Rich boy’ll never know what hit him.”

They clapped shoulders, still grinning, the card glinting like a promise of chaos between their dirty fingers.

The two thugs strutted down the street, still buzzing over their prize, when neon lights from a storefront caught their eyes.

“Yo,” the knife-holder said, nudging his buddy. “Check that out.”

Behind the glass was a rack of flashy leather jackets, all studs and shine.

The gunman grinned. “Damn, we gonna look like kings.” He slapped the black card against his palm. “First round’s on me.”

They swaggered into the shop, voices loud, pointing at jackets and sneakers like they owned the place.

“Gimme that red one, size large,” the knife-holder barked, already stripping off his dirty hoodie.

The gunman snatched a pair of sunglasses from the rack, sliding them on with a smirk. “Hell yeah. Now this is living.”

The cashier eyed the black card warily, but the swipe went through smooth. Bags hit the counter, the thugs snatched them up, laughing as they strutted back out into the night, dripping in stolen shine.

“Next stop?” the knife-holder said, tugging at his new jacket.

“Liquor store,” the gunman answered. “We’re celebrating big tonight.”



Mateo lounged back in the leather seat, phone in his hand.

A red dot blinked across the map.

The tracker tied to his custom black card was alive — but nowhere it should’ve been.

The streets on his screen narrowed, names he didn’t bother memorizing.

The signal sat in the heart of a ghetto block.

His tongue clicked once against his teeth. A slow smirk tugged at his mouth.

“He’s using daddy’s card,” Mateo muttered, voice low and hot, like he almost liked the audacity.

His grip shifted on the wheel. Tires screeched lightly as he yanked the car left, steering himself toward the blinking dot.

The city blurred past glass towers bleeding into crumbling apartments, polished sidewalks giving way to cracked concrete and buzzing light.

The tracker pulsed again. Closer. Closer.

Mateo’s jaw flexed.

One hand drummed against the wheel, restless. His eyes narrowed on the screen, then on the road. “You better pray I find you in one piece,” he said under his breath, the smirk gone.

The car dove deeper into the ghetto, shadows swallowing the shine of his world. The signal didn’t move. It waited. So did he.

The dashboard lit up, and a flat automated voice filled the car:

“Card detected. Signal is active. The card is here… somewhere around this area.”

The words repeated,  like a taunt.

Mateo’s eyes flashed  from the glowing map to the cracked streets outside. His fingers tightened on the wheel, knuckles pale.

“Here, huh?” he muttered, voice a dark rasp. “You think you can hide from me with my card?”

The voice chimed again, colder this time:

“Signal confirmed. The card is here.”

Mateo pulled the car to the curb, engine purring low.

He killed the headlights, shadows swallowing the sleek vehicle as his gaze swept the ghetto buildings — peeling paint, buzzing signs, broken windows, a scattering of drunks leaning against the walls.

A corner of his mouth curved. “Pretty boy… you better not be in the middle of this mess.”

He shut off the engine, the silence heavy, broken only by the automated voice once more:

“Signal locked. The card is here.”

Mateo slid his phone into his pocket and stepped out of the car, coat falling into place as if the streets were his runway.

“Daddy’s here,” he whispered under his breath, the promise rough, dangerous, and hot.

Mateo pushed the glass door open, a little bell jingling overhead.

The sudden burst of color almost knocked him off balance—bright shelves stacked with adult toys.

He blinked once, then let out a low chuckle. “Oh, hell yeah…” His voice dripped with disbelief and heat. “What is my pretty boy doing in here?”

lA young clerk behind the counter gave him a nervous smile, clearly not used to men like him in a place like this.

Mateo leaned lazily against the counter, phone in his palm. The tracker buzzed faintly—

“Signal active. Card detected.”

The dot pulsed bright. His eyes sharpened.

Then the bell above the door jingled again. Two men stumbled in, loud and laughing, bags swinging at their sides.

The tracker pinged loud and urgent now. Mateo’s gaze snapped to the men.

His smirk returned, slow and wicked. “Got you.”

The thugs swaggered toward the back aisle, shoving each other and snickering about something, the stolen black card burning a hole in one of their pockets.

Mateo’s jaw flexed. He straightened from the counter, every inch of him dangerous calm.

“Oh, pretty boy,” he whispered under his breath. “Looks like I found the rats sniffing around your crumbs.”