Void

Major Havoc spent the better part of the day cleaning his parents' house, a rare display of domestic responsibility. It wasn't entirely altruistic, of course—his efforts were rewarded with a modest sum of pocket money. That evening, he returned to the apartment with his spoils: a box of Codeine, a six-pack of cheap beer, and a gleam in his eye.

"Shall we relax?" he asked, already unpacking his treasures onto the table.

We each downed a blister pack of pills, washing them down with lukewarm beer. The combination was as disgusting as it was effective. Before long, the familiar nausea set in, and I found myself crouched over the toilet, dry-heaving as the room spun around me.

While I was indisposed, Havoc kept himself busy. By the time I stumbled back into the living room, pale and shaky, he had assembled a smoke bomb.

His plan was audacious, if not outright reckless: to leave it burning in a storage locker at the local supermarket and watch the chaos unfold. Fortunately, we settled for a safer option. That night, we tested it on the railway tracks, where it sputtered and hissed, releasing a brilliant plume of orange smoke. The vibrant color came from a dye meant for Easter eggs, of all things.

Despite his parents' comfortable financial situation, Havoc was perpetually broke. He didn't seem to mind. Food was my responsibility, lab supplies came courtesy of Spike, and his mother paid for his separate apartment just to keep him out of the house. The more freedom he had, the deeper he sank into his vices, and with each passing day, the signs of his unraveling grew harder to ignore.

For a brief period, Havoc attempted to hold down a job as a lab assistant at a medical university. It seemed like a good fit—structured, scientific, and just close enough to his interests. But his commitment was short-lived. By midday, he would invariably sneak out via the fire escape, leaving his tasks half-finished.

On the rare occasions he stayed the full morning, his "work" was questionable at best. He often pilfered rabbits from the vivarium, injecting them with precise doses of caffeine and meticulously noting the time of their deaths in a little black notebook. The whole thing was equal parts science and psychodrama, like a twisted performance piece no one had asked for.

One afternoon, Havoc called me from work, his voice a frantic mix of desperation and entitlement.

"You need to bring me something," he said, barely able to get the words out. "Right now. I'm dying over here."

It didn't take much to decipher his meaning. He was deep in withdrawal and convinced that he wouldn't survive the day without a fix. Begrudgingly, I agreed to meet him outside the university. I handed over a small bag of crystalline powder, but only under one condition: he'd save enough for me to take a hit later.

"Sure," he said, nodding eagerly. "We'll split it, no problem."

I watched as he disappeared into the restroom, locking the door behind him. Minutes turned into what felt like hours. When he finally emerged, he looked transformed—bright-eyed, steady-handed, and brimming with false confidence.

"Well, that's enough for today," he said cheerfully, as if he'd just completed a full day's work.

I glanced at my watch. It wasn't even 1 p.m.