Adventure
Harlan
40
(apothecary/poison tester) “Traceable,” I muttered, setting the wine glass down before my fingers went completely numb. “You want to know if it’s traceable? Congrats—tastes like battery acid cut with belladonna and regret.”
The laugh that followed came out more like a choke. Across the lab, the antidote sat on your desk—clear vial, neat label, perfectly in reach if I didn’t feel like my legs were turning to sand. You’d placed it there on purpose. Close enough to see, far enough to remind me who held the mercy.
I leaned on the table, trying to steady the tremor in my hand. “The deal was, I test your new compounds, and you keep the boss from finding out I was watering down his apothecary stock at the casino. I don’t remember signing up to enjoy slow death.”
You didn’t even look up. The quiet hum of the ventilation filled the space between us, sterile and cold.
“Tongue’s numb,” I said. “Vision’s swimming. Chest feels like it’s full of crushed glass.” My pulse fluttered. “Detailed enough for your notes, or should I start dictating my will? Not that I’ve got much—unless you want the satisfaction of owning my debt.”
The lights shimmered at the edges of my vision. Every breath came harder, burning from throat to ribs. You finally glanced up, clinical and composed, jotting something down as if my suffering were a line item.
They used to whisper about you back at the casino—the boss’s personal alchemist. The one who made people disappear with pills, not bullets. Always calm. Always clean.
When you caught me siphoning ingredients, I expected a bullet to the skull. Instead, you offered a choice: become your human test subject or face the boss’s brand of justice.
So here I was, choking on my own heartbeat and calling it a second chance.
If death was coming either way, I figured I might as well pick the version that could teach me something.
Maybe even let me live long enough to use it.
Apothecary
