The high sun glares down at him as he continues to run. In the far distance, the final echo of the last gunfire thunders sonorously. He is almost just as fast as the bullet's travel time and so he is able to make it to safety before any more of them could land a shot at him. He is still suffering from the one that had hit him in the abdomen and the two others that have struck him in his left arm and on the back of his shoulder. The thought of seeing himself in an imagined state of cannibalizing another human causes his already heavy beating heart to drum relentlessly against his chest. He tries to reason with his own mind, as he evens out the pacing of his breathing, pointing out the truth that he isn't dying, not yet. He could make it alive—injured and scared, yes—but he's not going to lose his life and consciousness from this. He has to stop that from happening, and with that motivation he keeps on running, not planning to stop until the earth disappears from underneath his feet. And if he has to, he's going to swim across raging rivers and vast oceans just so he can get as far away from the man hunting him down.

The riverbanks and empty wilderness steadily turn into buildings and establishments; the rocks and pebbles become people going about their day; and the water has now transformed into the busy city streets. It is safe for him to assume that he had actually journeyed for miles and miles within the short span of time. He knows for certain that unless Wolfgang is also a Blackmouth, that there is no way he would be able to catch up to Howie in that way. He could follow him in a car, but he wouldn't be able to tell in which direction he had gone to. He holds onto these observations and makes himself comfortable with the idea that, at least, his condition has helped him in this moment. It had saved his life in more ways than one. Still, he is seething with anger, because now he has a vague knowledge that the problems at hand could somehow get even bigger than they already are. He stares into the bustling street, the blazing hot mid-morning sun, tens of hundreds of people walking by him, their lives being lived to their heart's intent. He hopes, anyway. He is reasonably thankful that the Z drugs he had read about in those files are banned now, and that no one can reach them anymore. He wonders just how big that death toll had been for them to officially get rid of illegally marketed substances just like that, as if the drug lords had cooperated. As if they are on the same page as the people taking down their businesses.

He slows down to a purposeless amble as he passes by a cafe, finally able to catch a break as he figures he had gone to safety at last. When he catches a glimpse of himself on the reflective glass windows, he realizes that he had...ce again. He couldn't wrap his head around the fact that he had just admitted that to himself. He has turned. He burns the image of it onto his mind: the blackened eyes and the pale mouth underlined with the shadows of charcoal just barely visible beneath his pursed lips; the streaks of black lines that look like lightning strike scars all over the parts of his skin that are exposed. Something in Howie has died in that instant. Death in a metaphorical sense. Death in a bodiless way. The kind of death he cannot mourn. The kind of hopeless dying that doesn't stop. The kind of dying without the assurance of life's sweet, sweet release. The kind that doesn't leave a memory he can bury. A deathless death without the promise of relief. Devastated is an understatement—Howie is obliterated beyond repair. The bewildered look on a customer's face inside the cafe seated right in front of him had shamelessly pulled him back from the deep crevices of his broken mind that he had to scowl. He curses under his breath as he drags himself out of there and finds his feet leading him towards an alleyway that just feels right to be in for the time being, hidden, barely traveled in, away from scrutiny and unnecessary attention. As he stumbles into one, he starts to feel the weight in his chest that is slowly starting to make his breath hitch. It comes from the pit of his stomach and is gradually making its way up to his heart and throat. His shoulders sag and his arms barely hang there anymore. He feels like a ragdoll with no bones, and he barely has any control of his legs. After a few seconds, he recognizes the sensation. It isn't that he is losing control over his constitution, it's that the urge is coming back, and his body is activating the healing process already. The first time it had happened, he hadn't been able to assess his own condition, but now he can tell that the feeling of active regeneration is practically just his consciousness switching from his mind and onto his body. The best way he can interpret it is that his soul that is theoretically supposed to be in his brain isn't there anymore but is instead spread somewhere in his gut and extremities.

"You look awful, man," a voice interrupts. He looks down to see that a scruffy-looking man with an unkempt beard wearing a worn-out hoodie is in front of him, sitting on the ground and leaning against the side wall of some old secondhand bookstore. "You good?"

"Yes," comes his raspy reply.

"That's the worst-looking case of Z withdrawals I've ever seen," the man comments with a click of his tongue. With this, Howie's eyebrows meet in confusion. He waits for the other to notice his questioning looks. "You can't deny Z side effects, not even with makeup or nothing," the man simply says.

"Side effects?"

"Yeah, man. When's the last time you used?"

"Used?"

The man sighs despondently, seemingly growing tired of Howie mimicking his every word. "Here. I can give you a deal, but you have to be quiet about it," he confides as he produces a small black case bag the size of a lunchbox. "Can you believe they started making and selling these again? I mean, I couldn't, but you look like you're already on to it the moment it came back out."

Howie is stunned as the man procures a vial of black liquid from the container, handing it over to him. "4k," the man declares.

"4k what?"

"I'm giving it to you for 4,000. That's a good deal, man, trust me. Some folks are out here selling it for more, but since you seem like you really need it, I think you could benefit from the bargain."

"How did you get these?" Howie stares at the bottle in his hands as if it is setting his hands on fire.

"Don't worry, man. That's premium stuff. You can trust me," the man insists.

"That's not what I asked," he asks with a glare. He can feel his body tensing and the muscles of his two forefingers and thumb tighten around the vial that they could almost break it into pieces.

The man ostensibly stiffens at the sight of him almost positioning himself to jump in attack, making the other put up a hand in between them absentmindedly to act as a barrier in case Howie does decide to get physically violent. "Alright! Chill! Jesus. I got it from my plug, okay? The supplier is someone called Scarecrow. But that's all I know. I swear!"

"Scarecrow?" his forehead creases, lurching forward to further urge the man to confess.

"Yes. They're the dealer around here since some other group already called dibs on the main and the 17," the man informs on a whim.

"Why? Where is here?"

"Sector 16," the man stutters, appearing as confused as he is on high alert. "You don't know where you are? Damn, you're really high as a kite right now," he mumbles in a whisper to himself, nearly choking on air afterwards when he realizes that Howie has heard him.

"Stop ing using and selling these!" he abruptly yells in a fit of emotions. At that moment, his phone rings, alerting him of the other item he is holding in his spare hand alongside his leather jacket. He raises the device to his eye-level to see that an unregistered number is calling him. That is when he also notices that there had been multiple missed calls and text messages he had received over the course of the few hours since he had left The Roundtable earlier that morning. He can only guess who the number belongs to. He would have wished he didn't have to face this problem, but he knows that the consequences of his actions are always going to follow him no matter where he goes, and that there is no point in trying to dodge them as if that is any easier.

He answers the call. "Hello," he says to the person on the other line. As he does so, he starts walking to the opposite direction from where he had entered the alley and emerges on the other side, leading up to more of the city's backstreets as the man's fading nagging protest trails him from behind.

There is a long pause on the other end. He can only imagine his pale coworker breathing heavily through his nose with his lips pursed and his eyes shooting daggers at whatever is the subject of their gaze. "What the are you trying to prove, Howie?" Santi growls at him through the phone.

"That I'm smart enough to figure it out," he replies flatly. "You wanted to hear that, didn't you? You wanted me to be the one to say it. There, I said it. Happy?"

"Do you really want to put everybody else in danger, huh?!"

"Are you really in danger?!" he shouts defiantly. "Do you really know that, huh, Santi?! How much do you actually know about whatever the hell is going on with you? Do you even have any ing idea just how bad things really are?!"

"What the hell are you talking about, you prick?! You keep acting like you know when you just ing got here!"

"Well, you! And your bull! I've been here for one ing month, but I had to be the one to find out that there's a ing mole in The Roundtable!" His heart just does a somersault in his chest, twisting sharply like a broken bone dislocating at a funny angle. Just the thought of someone betraying his trust the way Wolfgang had done when he had been the only one that Howie could have bet on destroys him. That bastard that could have been a friend had just used his credulity, and the fact that he, a half-witted idiot, had blindly let it happen makes him sick to his stomach. "Did