It's nearly five when the real mistake begins.
School's long over. The sky's doing that moody orange-to-purple fade that makes everything look dramatic and suspicious. Perfect. Just the right lighting for a regrettable decision.
The street's half-empty, just a few shops open, flickering signs and the occasional honk in the distance. Zoe and I are walking fast, side by side, hoods up like we're about to rob a mini-mart. And behind us, a few feet back, with the energy of a brooding bodyguard slash extremely guilty mastermind, walks Reggie.
"I still think this is your job," I hiss over my shoulder.
He just grins. "You're better at talking to weird adults. And I have… a face Mickey wants to punch."
"He has two points," Zoe mumbles.
We stop just short of the rusted door on the side of the building—half hidden by overgrown hedges and bad decisions. Reggie doesn't follow us any farther. He folds his arms and leans on the wall. "I'll wait here," he says, eyes flicking up to the first-floor windows. "Mickey's probably in the back room, where he always plays his horror movie soundtracks on full blast. That's your cover. Look for the silver cabinet near the desk. Should be in there. Top drawer, under a stack of cassette tapes."
"Why is it always a silver cabinet?" Zoe mutters.
I turn to Reggie. "And if Mickey catches us?"
He shrugs. "Run. He's got bad knees."
"Perfect," I say flatly. "Nothing screams safety like breaking into a studio run by an old man with anger issues and a horror soundtrack addiction."
Reggie flashes one of those classic, infuriating smirks. "Come on. What's the worst that could happen?"
I don't answer. I just turn toward the door, my stomach doing that tight twisty thing it always does when I know I'm making the exact opposite of a wise choice. Zoe nudges me with her elbow. "If this ends with us on the news, I'm making sure the reporter knows this was Reggie's idea."
"I'll personally haunt him," I whisper back.
I glance once more at Reggie. He's casually checking his nails, like we're not about to risk getting cursed by a man who stores cassette tapes like they're national treasures.
Zoe cracks her knuckles like she's prepping for battle. "Okay. In, grab, out. Like emotional ninjas."
"Minus the grace and skills," I add.
She grins. "Speak for yourself."
I push the door open. It creaks. Of course it creaks. Because God has a sense of humor and wants us to suffer.
Inside, the place smells like old wires, damp carpet, and dusty ambition. The hallway is narrow and dim, lit by a single flickering overhead bulb that's definitely seen things. Posters from ancient rock bands peel off the walls like they're trying to escape.
We creep past the first room, which is lined with old amps and tangled cords and a couch that probably has its own ecosystem. Faint music plays from somewhere in the back—it's dramatic, orchestral, and very "someone's about to get murdered in a haunted forest." Classic Mickey.
I shoot Zoe a look that says, He really lives like this.
She nods, eyes wide, mouthing, This man is not well.
We reach the studio door. It's half-open, and from the sliver I can see, Mickey's in there—headphones on, bobbing along to whatever horror score he's lost in, completely unaware of the two high schoolers about to commit a light crime in his honor.
Zoe gestures toward the far corner of the room. "Cabinet."
I nod, but instead of sneaking in like burglars on a mission, we straighten up like we're here on official business. Which, technically, we are—if you stretch the definition of "business" to include "recovering stolen musical property for a classmate we barely tolerate."
I raise my hand and give a polite knock on the door. It echoes weirdly in the hallway. Maybe building is surprised someone's using manners in this crime-scented corridor.
We wait.
Nothing.
The music inside is loud—strings and creepy synths swelling. We've walked into a live taping of Serial Killer's Greatest Hits, Volume 3. Mickey's clearly deep in his madman composer zone.
Zoe sighs. Loudly. "Seriously?" She steps forward, and knocks, trying to wake the dead.
BANG BANG BANG.
The music cuts.
We both freeze.
A second later, we hear the sharp clack of a chair being pushed back, a rustle of cords, and then—there he is. Mickey. Same wild gray-streaked hair. Same paint-stained hoodie. Same look of "I haven't slept since 2016" in his eyes.
Zoe and I glance at each other. And there is that weird tickle of familiarity. It has been a while. Two years, to be exact, since we last set foot in this strange little sound cave. Back then, we were roped into helping him carry dusty boxes of vinyl and rearrange cables that looked like they'd been salvaged from the Titanic.
In return, he handed us expired KitKats and said, "For your efforts, brave soldiers."
And now we're back. For a USB that technically isn't ours. A fact that we are, conveniently, choosing to ignore.
He opens the door just enough to peer through, squinting like we're ghosts. "Uh…You two look... familiar?"
I flash a sheepish smile. "We were here a couple years ago. Helped you with the records. You gave us chocolate that may or may not have been a crime against food safety."
"Right," he says slowly, snapping his fingers. Dusty memory finally clicked into place. "The girls who stacked my entire Queen collection in alphabetical order. You made a shrine out of it."
"It was art," Zoe says proudly.
He steps back, still suspicious but too tired to argue. "Well. What do you want now?"
Zoe and I look at each other.
Oh, we want the USB, obviously. The tiny plastic time bomb containing Reggie's entire musical career-slash-personality crisis. But obviously we can't say that. So I go with Plan B: bullshitting with conviction.
"We've been really into music lately," I tell Mickey, trying to sound all curious and innocent. Two teenagers driven purely by artistic thirst and not roped into an illegal mission by the local chaos goblin known as Reggie. "Like, old-school music. Analog vibes. Cassettes and stuff."
Zoe jumps in. "Yeah! And your studio has so much cool vintage material—we were wondering if we could, like… borrow some? Just to listen. Learn. Experience the roots. You know."
Mickey narrows his eyes like he's trying to see if we're lying. Which we absolutely are.
But then he grunts and rubs his beard, which is usually the international sign of a man about to deliver a sentence nobody wants to hear. "You can take a few," he says, "but it'll cost you."
We freeze.
"What," I say slowly, "like… emotionally?"
He deadpans, "No. Like money. I'm not running a library here. You take something, you pay. And you better bring it back in two weeks or you'll be banned for life."
Zoe and I gasp in sync, like someone just punched the moon and it landed on our heads.
"What do you mean it costs money?" Zoe squawks, hands flailing. "You gave us expired chocolate for labor last time!"
"Yeah," I say, scandalized. "That was our whole payment! We were basically volunteers!"
Mickey shrugs, totally unbothered. "Inflation."
I can feel my eye twitch. That motherducker Reggie. That cursed, arrogant, cryptid of a boy. He didn't say a word about this part. Not once did he mention we'd have to pay actual, real currency to rescue his precious stolen beat drop from the depths of Mickey's hoarder kingdom.
"Oh, I'm gonna strangle him," I mutter under my breath.
Zoe nods, eyes blazing. "With one of these damn cassette wires. And then I'll invoice him."
Meanwhile, Mickey's already wandering back to his corner muttering about kids these days not understanding the value of analog sound.
We exchange a look.
We've got to buy the thing we're stealing.
I hate everything.
"Alright," I whisper to Zoe. "New plan. We buy the cheapest, crustiest cassette in there… and while we do that, we find the USB."
"Perfect," she whispers back. "Commit a heist, support local business. Balance."
Honestly? She's got a point.
We step up to the silver cabinet like it's some kind of altar, and we're about to perform a very shady ritual.
Inside, it's a mess of plastic cases, tape spools, and mystery. There are labels written in Sharpie and some that look like they were scribbled during a small earthquake. One just says "Screams (Live)" in all caps, which… no thanks.
Zoe picks up a tape labeled "Romantic Synth Vibes Vol. 3" and raises her brows. "Fifty bucks says this sounds like a haunted roller rink."
I'm not laughing. I'm scanning like a hawk, heart pounding like it's scoring its own spy movie. Because somewhere, beneath all this junk, lies it. The USB. The plastic savior of Reggie's ego. Probably wrapped in some outdated mixtape like a smuggled jewel.
Mickey calls out from his desk without looking up. "If you break a case, you're buying that one too."
"Yes, sir," I say, sweet as syrup, while Zoe quietly mutters, "Capitalist gatekeeper of sound."
I dig deeper.
There it is.
Under a faded tape marked "Alien Rainforest Sounds Vol. 1," I spot a sleek, black flash drive with a tiny red sticker on the side. I don't even have to guess—this is it. This is his.
I slide it quietly into my pocket. I'm pocketing stolen royalty. Zoe holds up a cracked cassette with no label. "We'll take this one."
Mickey rolls his chair around and now has energy for capitalism. "That'll be ten bucks."
Zoe freezes. "Ten? It's cracked!"
"Vintage," he says.
I don't even argue. I whip out a crumpled ten from my emergency snack fund and slap it on the desk.
My precious hard earned money.
Mickey nods and takes it with the satisfied grunt of a man who just got paid to make teens suffer.
"We'll bring it back," I lie.
He waves us off like he's already forgotten we exist. The horror music's back on—some slow violin screech that feels oddly personal.
We step outside into the evening air like we've just survived a war. Reggie's still leaning against the wall, tossing a pebble into the air like this was just another Wednesday.
"Got it?" he asks.
I toss the USB at him, hard. He fumbles it. "Ow! Damn, chill!"
"You didn't tell us it would cost money." Zoe hisses.
He pauses, then has the audacity to smirk. "Oh. Right. I forgot."
I stare at him like he's sprouted another head. "You forgot?"
He shrugs, so casual I want to throw him into traffic. "Wasn't important."
"Wasn't impor—" I can't even finish the sentence. My jaw is halfway to the pavement. "I paid for that tape with my own money, you walking pile of overpriced shampoo. Not all of us are dipped in designer clothes and handed sports cars on our birthdays."
He blinks, caught off guard. I keep going.
"I had to break into my emergency fund, because some arrogant, label-wearing, cologne-drenched Gucci gremlin forgot to mention the price tag!"
His smirk fades.
Zoe makes a low "oooh" sound under her breath. It's the kind of sound people make when someone just dropped a nuke in a roast battle.
I know I went too far when his jaw tightens and that pretty-boy smile disappears like someone unplugged it. His whole vibe shifts—less smug, more storm cloud. He steps toward me. He's counting down in his head not to explode. His voice drops low, tight.
"Say that again."
Oh.
I've struck the nerve.
"The part about you being a spoiled brat?" I ask, half-backing up, half-refusing to break eye contact. "Or the Gucci gremlin? Because that one felt inspired."
His fists clench.
Zoe steps between us fast. "Okay, okay, cool down, Ken doll. No one's trying to die outside a creepy studio."
He doesn't move. He just glares at me, jaw ticking. He's fighting the urge to scream or combust or punch the nearest trash can or just punch me. "I helped you," he growls.
"And we helped you," I shoot back. "You think this was some easy side quest?"
Zoe waves her arms between us. "Okay! Feelings acknowledged. Rage exchanged. Let's all breathe before someone throws hands."
But Reggie isn't having it. His eyes flash dark. l just lit a match inside his ego and forgot to put it out. "How dare someone who doesn't even come close to matching my social standard talk to me like that?" he spits. "I only used you two because I needed my track back. Otherwise, you two average idiots wouldn't even be worth the breath it takes to say 'hello.'"
Silence.
Oh wow.
Zoe's hand drops mid-air. And I just keep processing everything he said.
His social standard.
Used.
Average idiots?
Wouldn't even be worth the breath it takes to say 'hello'?
Oh wow.
He gives one final look, cold and disgusted. "Don't ever forget the only reason I spoke to you was because you were desperate enough to say yes. That's the only thing we ever had in common."
And with that, he turns. Just walks away. Like nothing he said was enough to gut someone.
Zoe exhales sharply beside me. "What. The. Actual. Hell."
But I don't say anything. I just stand there.
Still.
Burning.
Because he wasn't even yelling.
He meant every word.