Snake:
The neon lights from the stage flickered off the surface of my drink, casting a warped reflection of red and blue into the bottom of my glass. The bass thumped like a heartbeat, a synthetic rhythm that did little to drown out the chaos spinning in my head. The smell of sweat, cheap perfume, and stale whiskey clung to the air like a curse.
I sat in the corner booth of the strip club—our strip club—clutching a crinkled, sweat-smudged paper in my fist. It was the final straw. The last nail in the goddamn coffin Viper had hammered together one reckless choice at a time.
I slammed back the rest of my drink, the burn not even registering anymore. My knuckles were white as I tightened my grip on the page, the words swimming in front of my eyes. Documents. Statements. Evidence of all the
