Chapter 216
Raven
"I'm tired of being the one getting fucked unconscious," I interrupted, channeling every ounce of Marianne's selfish hedonism. "Time to flip the script. Let him be the one who can't walk straight tomorrow."
I brought the capsule to my lips.
In that microsecond before anyone could react, my trained senses kicked into overdrive:
Smell: Faint chemical sweetness. Synthetic. Familiar base compounds—dextroamphetamine, maybe methylphenidate. Standard stimulant cocktail.
Visual: Color saturation too uniform. Mass-produced pharmaceutical coating, not custom lab work.
Weight: Standard gelcap density. No unusual heaviness that would indicate exotic compounds.
Conclusion: Common amphetamine derivative. Street drug dressed up as boutique pharmaceutical. Dangerous, sure—but nothing I couldn't handle.
Not poison. Not a tracking agent. Not Synthesis-47.
Just a simple stimulant. A test.
And I'd just called his bluff.
I met The Surgeon's eyes as I placed the capsule on my tongue. Let him see the challenge. The absolute certainty that I wasn't afraid.
Then, as my mouth closed, I executed a technique I'd learned from a magician in Prague: tongue pressed capsule against back of front teeth while appearing to swallow. The motion looked natural. Convincing.
But the capsule never went down my throat.
It sat there, hidden, while I made a show of swallowing. Adam's apple moving. Slight grimace as if tasting something unpleasant.
"Hmm." I licked my lips slowly. "Sweet. With a bitter aftertaste. Sophisticated, Surgeon. I can already feel it starting to—"
I let my pupils dilate slightly. Breathing quickened. The physiological markers of stimulant uptake. All fake. All performance.
But god, I was good at performance.
"Oh shit," I breathed, hand going to my chest. "Oh... oh..." A slow smile spread across my face. "This is... this is fucking incredible."
Nash's concern flashed across his features—real this time, cutting through Anthony's persona. He took a step toward me.
"You crazy bitch!" His voice cracked with what sounded like genuine anger. "You stole my—that was mine! That was the good shit!"
He lunged for me, hands going for my shoulders like he was going to shake me or force me to regurgitate it. "Spit it out! Now! At least give me half, you selfish—"
His hands landed on my arms. I felt the question in his grip: Are you okay? What the hell are you doing?
I gave him the subtlest nod. I'm fine. Play along.
"The Surgeon," I gasped, pretending the stimulant was hitting hard, "said it takes ten hours! Too late, baby! It's already dissolving!"
Nash's face contorted with fury—beautiful, believable fury. "You—you—"
"Gentleman. Gentlewoman." The Surgeon's voice cut through our performance, smooth as poisoned honey. "Please. Please."
He was laughing.
Actually laughing—deep, genuine amusement that reached his eyes for the first time since he'd entered the room.
"Anthony," he said, placing a hand on Nash's shoulder, "it's quite alright. That was merely a standard amphetamine. A party favor, if you will."
The room went silent.
"A... party favor?" Nash's voice dropped dangerously low.
"My apologies for the deception." The Surgeon's smile widened. "But I had to ensure you were serious investors. Not federal agents playing dress-up."
Clever bastard.
"The real product," he continued, producing another case from his other pocket—this one black, with a biometric lock, "I keep much more secure. And I'll be happy to provide samples to serious partners."
Nash's entire body went rigid beside me.
Then he exploded.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" He yanked his arm away from The Surgeon's proximity like he'd been burned. "We came here in good faith! Showed you our money, our connections, our interest—and you feed my wife some bullshit party drug as a test?"
His voice rose with each word, Anthony's barely-contained rich-boy rage bleeding through perfectly. "You think this is funny? You think we flew out here on Chandler's recommendation to be your goddamn lab rats?"
That's it. Sell it.
I grabbed Nash's sleeve, tugging hard. "Baby, forget it. This whole thing is a fucking joke." I let my voice pitch high with Marianne's entitled fury. "I thought—I thought this was supposed to be revolutionary! The next big thing! But it's just—just street shit with fancy packaging!"
I stumbled slightly for effect, gesturing wildly at The Surgeon. "I could get better quality from my dealer in Beverly Hills! At least he doesn't waste my time with stupid loyalty tests before showing me the real merchandise!"
Nash whirled toward the exit. "Come on, Marianne. We're done here."
"Wait—no—I'm done first!" I pushed past him, nearly tripping in my heels. "I'm SO done with this whole charade!"
I spun to face The Surgeon, letting Marianne's manic energy explode. "You know what? FUCK this! Fuck your 'real product,' fuck your smug little smile, and fuck wasting my perfectly good high on this disappointing amateur hour!"
The room went dead silent. Even the drugged women seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere.
Chen Wei's eyes went wide. Maria Santos looked ready to bolt. Chandler opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly unsure whether to defend his boss or apologize to us.
I grabbed Nash's hand, yanking him toward the stairs.
"Mr. and Mrs. Goodman."
The Surgeon's voice cut through the room like a blade. Sharp. Commanding.
Not angry.
Impressed.
He moved faster than I expected—stepping directly into our path to the exit, hands raised in a placating gesture. But his eyes... his eyes were calculating. Reassessing.
"Please. Stop."