High

The cold wind of Moscow bit through the layers of Jimmy's jacket, but he barely noticed. He was high again, floating above the gritty streets of Russia's capital city, his thoughts scattered like snowflakes in a storm. The neon signs blurred as he wandered aimlessly down the alley behind Bolshaya Nikitskaya, chasing shadows only he could see.

Jimmy hadn't meant to end up here. Not in Russia, not in this life. He was supposed to be in medical school back in California, the golden boy of San Diego with a bright future. But that was before the pills, before the coke, before the need became bigger than the dream.

It started small. A couple of Adderall during finals week. Then oxy. Then lines at parties. By the time he dropped out, he was already too far gone to care. The overdraft fees, the maxed-out cards, the hollow-eyed reflection in his mother's bathroom mirror. So when a stranger at a club whispered about "opportunity" in Moscow, he took the offer without asking questions.

It was supposed to be easy. A few runs, some safehouse hops, and he'd be paid in cash and more powder than he could dream of. The man who recruited him, Ivan, had the charm of a devil and the hands of a killer. Jimmy didn't ask about the details. All he cared about was the high.

Weeks turned into months. Jimmy learned the routes, the codes, the drop-off points. His American face made him less suspicious to the locals. They called him "Yankee" and he smiled through cracked teeth. But each trip wore him down. He stopped calling his sister. He stopped checking the calendar. His passport expired, and he didn't even blink.

Until the night of the trap.

It was late December. The city glittered under a veil of frost, and the air tasted like iron. Jimmy was making his final delivery of the month-a kilo of heroin, hidden in a false-bottom guitar case. He walked into the metro station at Park Kultury, just like always. But something felt off. The guards weren't looking away like they used to. People stared a beat too long.

Then he saw the boots.

Black leather, polished to mirror shine. The unmistakable symbol of the Russian Special Forces sewn onto the arm of the nearest officer.

"Jimmy Carter," a voice called.