Even When I Hate You

Even When I Hate Myself

The meeting is over, and as soon as the door shuts, my phone buzzes again. This time, the name on the screen makes my jaw clench.

I swipe the call open, my voice flat. "What?"

The voice on the other end is smooth—too smooth. The kind of voice that makes my skin crawl, because he's one of the few people I can't just brush off.

"I need you to handle something," he says, his tone casual, like he's asking for a favor. But we both know it's not a request. "Nothing too big, but it requires... a special touch."

I exhale slowly, already knowing this isn't something I can say no to. When he says jump, I don't get to ask if—I only get to ask how high. And I fucking hate that.

"What's the problem?"

"A few of our guys are getting... creative. They think they can take a bigger cut without anyone noticing."

I've seen this shit a thousand times. They're amateurs—greedy, sloppy, impatient. Sure, I've played this game too, but the difference? I know when to take more, and more importantly, how to do it without getting caught. These guys? They don't know when to shut up and observe. It's all about patience and timing. And if you don't have it, that's how you end up dead in this business.

"Names."

"You'll get them soon," he replies, his tone shifting. "But first, you're expected at a charity event this weekend. Politicians, media... important faces. And with your face, it's way easier. Makes us look more... respectable." I can hear the grin in his voice, like this is all some kind of weird joke. The way he talks makes my blood rush in anger. I clench my teeth for a second to not say something dumb.

A fucking charity event. I can't stand those things. Too many pretenders. Everyone's playing nice, dressed in expensive suits, acting like they give a shit about something other than themselves. But that's exactly the difference here. On the streets, people are raw, desperate, holding knives to your back. Here, the knives are subtle, hidden behind charm and fake laughs, but they're still just as sharp. And everyone's got their own angle, their own agenda.

They pretend they're better than the streets, but I know better. They're all just as hungry for power—just better at hiding it behind polished smiles.

I know the game, and I'm fucking good at it. But I just hate it.

"Fine," I say, forcing the word out, irritation curling in my voice. "I'll be there. And the upcoming deal in three weeks—anything I need to worry about?"

There's a pause on the other end. "Should be fine," he says smoothly. "But you know how these things go. I'll keep you updated if I hear something."

If I could trust him, his words would ease me. But promises are like fucking smoke. Especially from him. I've learned not to trust anything I can't control myself. And deep down, I know he doesn't like how fast I'm climbing. He's probably already thinking about how to keep me in check.

The line goes dead. The weight settles heavier on my shoulders. I stare at the phone for a moment longer before tossing it onto the couch. The penthouse, with its spotless luxury and pristine views, feels even more suffocating now. Feels like each day that passes the walls come a little bit closer, like I'm a predatory animal in a cage. No matter how high I rise, there's always someone else pulling the strings, reminding me I'm not in complete control.

I flick open another cigarette. There's always another game to play, another face to wear. But this one? It's wearing thin.

I head to the small bar in the corner of the living room, pouring myself a drink. The burn of the whiskey feels familiar, but everything else feels like a fucking performance—a dance between the public and private, between Noir Weiss, the famous rapper, Jaxon, the man who handles things no one else can touch, and the real me. Three versions of me, and some days I can't even tell where one starts and the other ends. Hell, sometimes I'm not sure I even remember who the real me is anymore.