DROP EIGHT
Nobody had bothered to wash the blood.
Hector stood there with his hands in his jacket pockets. The blood was red on the fringes, dried up, looking blackish-brown now. It wasn’t pink. This wasn’t a sports game. This wasn’t a show on the veil, or on the net, or on VR.
He had known Diego for more than 10 years, and that’s a lot of time when you’re only 30. Practically your entire adult life. He wasn’t a real friend, but he knew the bastard well enough.
They had gotten drunk a few times together, had a few laughs. Less when he became an addict, since then it was all about the next score with Diego. He never was the best of customers but he always paid back his debts with intel from the street and various opportunities. Most of that was shooting the s**t, but some of his tips ha
