Which path do you live?

Dean didn’t ask questions like that. Life, to Dean, was a straight road — bumpy, filled with obstacles, but unbroken. There was no question of where he would end up, just how long it would take.

Right now, he was just trying to keep the lights on.

His studio was a box above Ming’s Dynasty — a tired Chinese joint with sticky floors and a loyal lunch crowd. The brick stopped at the second floor, but no one ever gave it a second glance.

Grow tents lined every wall — zipped shut, dripping condensation, and bathed in a low, purple glow.

The air clung to the back of your throat, and even with the fans running, the scent stuck to your tongue like syrup. Skunky, like a spice rack dipped in diesel. Dean didn’t notice it anymore. Anyone new? They gagged the second they stepped through the door.

The carpeting didn’t do him any favors. It wasn’t even his, just leftover from whoever had lived in the room before him. Everything leached into it — nutrient runoff, spilled soil, stray leaves. Dean sprayed it down weekly with alcohol and peroxide, but the smell never left. One day, he’d rip the damn thing out and seal the floor like a real grower.

He didn't open the curtains. He couldn't, even if he wanted to. The tents were pushed right up against the thick fabric. Privacy was necessity, not luxury. The restaurant below let him piggyback off their utilities -- bless Ms. Ming -- for a monthly cash fee slipped under the register. So he ran everything full blast. His yields were dense, sticky, and pungent. Chemical masterpieces.

Dean wasn't just growing weed. He was crafting experience. Terpenes dialed to perfection. He catalogued reactions, experimented with drying times, curing jars, strain cross-breeding. But the true mark of a master? Consistency. Every bag smelled the same. Every hit had the same effect. That was Dean's obsession. The ultimate signature.

Dean didn't name his strains. He named reactions. The lemon bite -- limonene. The calm haze that followed? Myrcene. Every batch was a balancing act between chemistry and instinct. The citrus came first -- sharp and immediate. Then the warmth rolled in, low and grounding. He said it hit like a jazz chord: unexpected, but exactly right. That's what made his product different. That's what made it dangerous.

His dealers knew what he was. They respected him, even if they didn't understand him. You didn't mess with Dean's routine. When his product hit the streets, people talked. And when something was that good, people shared. Not like addicts, keeping it for themselves. Like evangelists. They brought others in. Word of mouth was organic, unstoppable.

That's the danger. Addiction is manageable. It's local. Predictable. A known economic cost.

But good product?

Good product makes people talk. It makes people ask questions. It draws attention — not just from customers. From competitors. From people who don't like the balance being upset.

From people like me.

I watch Dean from across the street. Second floor of a coffee shop with wide, dusty windows, and slow wi-fi. My coffee's cold to the touch, but I wouldn't know.

My product isn't like Dean's. It's not something you share. It's quiet. Clean.

I sit at the window with a book open and my elbows on the table, infrared lenses tucked behind the shades. From here, I can see the glow inside his apartment, and I can barely make out his silhouette against the heat of his setup. I see Dean pacing, tweaking settings, checking moisture levels. A master at work.

Dean should've kept his footprint small. Local. He should've kept the product just good enough to move, not so good people came looking for it by name. Not so good he hit the radar.

I check my phone. Orders confirmed. The date: Yesterday. Payment: 50k. Enough to disappear again -- for a while. I stare at the number longer than I need to. The job's clean, the math is solid. But something about the glow of that apartment sticks with me. I've seen labs, smugglers, chemists.

But Dean? He cared.

That used to mean something.

I shake it off. Sentiment's just friction. Friction gets you caught. I take my first sip of the cold coffee and slide my phone away.

Dean collapses at 2:37 PM. It's subtle. One second he's adjusting the temp controller, the next he's on the ground, fingers twitching like he's trying to keep time with a song only he hears. At 2:40 PM, he's still.

I count to fifteen. Then thirty. Then I wait thirty more. Professionalism isn't patience. It's precision.

Time of death — 2:42 PM.

Then I slip my lenses and binoculars back into their case. I stand, stretch, and the jacket goes on.

The staff doesn't notice me leave.

The safe house is on the other side of town, above an abandoned laundromat that smells faintly of detergent and mildew. I'm out of the first spot in under four minutes, route planned, bag pre-packed.

At the safe house, I clean. Gloves on. Every surface wiped, infrared gear disassembled, scrubbed, sealed in plastic. Notes deleted. Files purged. Hard drives zeroed out, and then destroyed.

And then, the folder.

Every hit comes with a file: background, surveillance, psych profile, habits, patterns. Dean's file was thick. I knew his full name, the nickname his mother used when he was five, his first dealer, his best yield, and even the three strains he'd never touch again because they gave the wrong kind of high. I knew he always fiddled with his laces before anything important, and that he was developing a new grow light configuration that he hadn't disclosed. I knew what made Dean proud.

I slide the papers into the sink, and strike a match. Flames ripple through the records, and I turn away before it's finished.

No prints. No traces. No plan left behind. No map to follow back. Nothing to reference the target. I clear it all.

By the time I'm done, it's 6:57 PM. The sun's low. I take one last look at the flip phone. Delete the number. Snap the SIM. Flush the rest.

The target is burned. Their product won't resurface -- not like that. Not with their hands. Someone else might try, but it won't be the same. It won't taste the same.

Good product is like a fingerprint. It's unique. And when it's gone, it's gone.

The train station smells like engine grease and stale coffee. I keep to the edge of the platform, shoulders down, hat low.

The ticket's one-way. Somewhere quieter.

I board without a glance in either direction.

My target's story ends in a room humming with electronics and faintly purple. A craftsman. Nothing now.

Which way is life?

Forward, I guess. Just not for everyone.

君たちはどの道を生きるか