THE ARRIVAL

SMOKE'S POV

Stepping off the plane in Oklahoma City, I felt the weight of the past eight years lift slightly. Prison had been a cage, but now I was free, ready to rebuild. The city was unfamiliar territory, a blank slate for my operations.

I hailed a taxi outside the terminal. The driver, a middle-aged guy with a friendly demeanor, greeted me.

"Where to, sir?" he asked.

"Somewhere decent to stay," I replied. "And a bar where I can get a good drink."

He nodded. "I know just the place. Name's Charles, by the way."

"Smoke," I said, settling into the back seat.

As we drove through the city, I noticed an abundance of churches. Their steeples seemed to pierce every other block.

"Lot of churches around here," I remarked.

Charles chuckled. "Yeah, we got more churches than convenience stores. Folks around here like to hedge their bets—pray on Sunday, sin the rest of the week."

I smirked. "Guess that covers all bases."

"So, what brings you to Oklahoma City?" Charles asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

"Business," I said curtly.

What kind of what he asked?

I leaned forward, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "None of your fucking kind of business

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fair enough, Smoke. Just making conversation."

"Good," I said, leaning back in the seat, eyes locked on the road ahead. "Drop me at a hotel first. Come pick me up at 6. We’ll hit a bar after that."

Charles glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Alright, boss. I know a spot. Decent rates, clean sheets, no bed bugs—most days." He grinned, like he’d cracked the funniest joke in the world.

I didn’t laugh. "Just get me there."

The ride was quiet for a while. I watched the city roll by—brick buildings, rundown diners, and way too many churches for one place. Crosses on every other corner like the city was in a constant state of repentance.

Then I saw it—a weed shop beside a pawn shop. Neon-green leaves glowing in the window like a beacon. “Green Haven Dispensary” the sign read. Clean, flashy, and out of place on a block that looked like it hadn’t seen fresh paint in a decade.

leaned forward, tapping Charles on the back of the headrest. "Who owns that spot?"

He glanced at the shop, then gave me a shrug. "Green Haven? No idea, man. Probably some local dude. Why?"

"Who runs the city?" I asked, eyes still locked on the shop as it faded into the distance.

Charles frowned, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. "What you mean, 'who runs the city'?"

I leaned forward, my voice lower, firmer. "Who calls the shots, Charles? Who do people answer to when things get hot? Somebody's always on top."

He blinked a few times, lips pressing into a thin line like he was running through a list of possible answers. "Man, I dunno. This ain’t one of them mafia movies. Folks here just live, work, and try to stay outta trouble."

"Pull over," I said, voice sharp.

Charles glanced at me in the mirror, confused. "What? We ain't at the hotel yet."

"Pull. Over," I said again, slower this time.

He muttered something under his breath but did as he was told, easing the cab to the curb near the dispensary. I didn’t wait for him to ask questions. I was already out of the car, my boots crunching against the gravel-strewn sidewalk. The cold air hit me, sharp and clean, but I barely felt it. My eyes were on that door—Green Haven Dispensary—glowing like an invitation.

Big guy at the door, built like a fridge, stuffing a doughnut in his face. Powdered sugar all over his beard like he’d lost a fight with a bakery. He barely glanced up at me.

“ID,” he grunted, still chewing.

“I’m just here to check out the place,” I said, eyes on the door.

He raised an eyebrow, still chewing slow like I’d said something funny. “Ain’t nobody just checkin’ out a weed shop, man. ID or no entry.” I stepped forward, close enough for him to feel the shift in the air. My eyes locked on his, steady and unblinking. “I said I’m just here to check out the place.”

He stared at me for a second too long, then shrugged like it wasn’t worth the trouble. Hit the button, and I heard the click of the door unlocking.

Inside, the smell hit me like a wall—earthy, sweet, and thick. The air was warmer too, hazy from the smoke hanging in it. Place was cleaner than I expected. Neon lights bouncing off glass display cases filled with weed in every form—buds, gummies, pre-rolls, brownies. Looked more like a candy shop for grown-ups.

A few customers wandered around, slow and aimless, eyes low like they’d already had a taste. Nobody paid me any mind.

I walked straight to the counter. Kid behind it had his head down, thumb swiping up and down on his phone. Hoodie on, headphones around his neck, eyes barely open. I stepped up and let my shadow stretch over him. He glanced up, then went right back to scrolling.

“Welcome to Green Haven,” he muttered, barely looking at me. “Let me know if you need help.”

“I do,” I said, leaning on the counter. “I need to know who owns this place.”

“Owners ain’t here,” he said, eyes still on his phone. “You buying or what?”

I blinked slow. Wrong answer.

Grabbed his hoodie and yanked him forward, hard. His face hit the glass counter with a THUD. Not hard enough to shatter it, but hard enough for his nose to pop. Blood smeared across the glass like a bad paint job.

The store went quiet. Real quiet. All eyes on me now. Customers froze like I’d just pulled a gun. One dude dropped his bag of gummies.

“WHO OWNS THIS PLACE?” I said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Then the security came toward me to safe the day, I slammed his head on the same glass I slammed the kid but this time it cracked