3:30pm

46: "You can't shoot the bitch . . . she's Stephen's."

I was starting to have second thoughts. Wherever it was we were going, it was clear I had to be careful. Extremely careful. 

Still contemplating the possibilities of where Stephen was going, I moved my gaze back to the road in search of the mirror's glint. It wasn't there anymore. There were no mirrors and no motorcycle. 

My pulse quickened on realizing I'd lost sight of Stephen. 

No, no, no, no.

"Where is he?" I asked, whipping my eyes back to the driver. "Where the heck is he? Did we lose him?"

"Relax," the man replied coolly. "This ain't my first time following someone, you know? He took a turn right. At the junction."

I looked at him suspiciously. What did he really mean by "this ain't my first time following someone"? Not wanting to dwell on his words, basically because I didn't have the time to spare, I trailed my gaze from him, this time deciding to remain alert.

The driver took a turn right when he eventually got to the junction, only for us to meet with a cul-de-sac. At the end of the street, not too far from its entrance, was a dead end. 

"I knew something was up when he took that turn," the driver murmured to himself. "Why would anyone wanna come here? Syc Street of all places. The place is fucking abandoned."

He was right. Syc Street, according to the man, was a place I'd never heard of nor seen in all my years of living in Springfield. It was like an entirely different world, partly closed off from the rest of Springfield because of the fact that it was a blind alley, what with the graffiti-covered walls, dilapidated houses and littered floors—almost every inch of the cracked and mildly eroded floor had a shard of broken bottle to its name.

What could Stephen possibly be doing in a place like this? 

"That your guy?" The driver asked suddenly, breaking into my thoughts. He had already parked at a corner of the entrance to the street obscured by thick bushes.

I followed his line of sight, my gaze falling on Stephen. He was at the farthest end of the deserted street, hanging his helmet unto the handle of the motorcycle, having already braked and parked it before a dusty sedan. 

He turned away from the bike then, his face now in view, and began walking towards a run-down building complex not too far from where he parked. Eyes squinting against the sun, he still looked upset. And he still was unaware of my presence. 

"Is this your destination?" The driver asked as I watched Stephen walk into the building through an open door to the side of it. There he met two other guys, the first one dark-skinned and looking like he was the same age as Stephen and the second having pale skin and unruly blonde hair, who he talked to briefly before they left the entrance and followed him in. 

"Yeah," I murmured to the driver, still trying to put two and two together, but nothing seemed to be adding up. 

What shady business was Stephen up to? And for how long has it been going on?

"That'll be fifteen," the man told me.

I wasn't in the mood to argue. If he was ripping me off at the moment, I honestly didn't care. Digging my hand into the pocket of my joggers, I got out the twenty dollar bill that'd been rolled into it earlier and handed it over to the man. As soon as he gave me my change I pulled up the hood of my hoodie and opened the door, easing myself out slowly; I didn't want to do anything that could attract any sort of attention.

The moment I closed the door, the driver started the car and backed away from the entrance. In a minute he was gone, leaving me alone with my scared, anxious thoughts. My hands which I had stuck into the unipocket of my hoodie grew suddenly clammy. Against my will, I turned toward the complex and began walking, my head down, feet taking steps in an almost robot like manner.