Inferno // dreamnotfound

n i n e t e e n

TW: gambling (idk if that's a trigger), violence, blood, drug-handling, death

Dream's nerves were as if on a constant pulse. His eyes were blurred with anxiety and feeling out of place.

You've got this. He tried to tell himself, though he knew he didn't.

Someone so internally scruffy didn't belong in this high-class casino in London. Dream was wearing a suit. Black, with a white shirt and a bow tie. He felt overdressed, although one might argue that he was underdressed. Anything more than a polo shirt seemed overdressed for Dream.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel apprehensively and blinked in reassurance at himself in the mirror before climbing out of his car and pulling on his black silk gloves - he could tell they were going to get soaked in sweat.

He grabbed the duffel from the boot and slung it over a shoulder as he made his way towards the door. He tried to look as emotionally-detached and intimidating as possible as he strode up to the guy with the list.

"I'm here with a slice of triple cheese, garlic-stuffed pizza for Al," he muttered to him, expression unreadable. That was the code he was told to say. The list guy knew exactly what he meant, especially paired with the fact he obviously didn't have a slice of pizza and did have a duffel.

He led Dream towards the back room of the casino. They passed an area dimly lit by lamps and a rich, deep red coating the walls and velvet couches. Rich old guys and people spending their father's money were sprawled out over them, delicately placing cards down and sliding chips around.

The room he was brought to was not as decorative, in fact, it was all dark, with one hanging light above a round table. There was a beefy-looking guy standing by the door and three guys sitting around the table, with a free chair presumably for Dream to sit on. The guy with the list nodded and left.

(Hey guys I know this kind of thing probably wouldn't happen just for weed, but if dream got caught with a class A drug he would have been detained and gone to trial and stuff so just for plot reasons, this is a super important weed deal).

Dream was alone with them and felt an extreme wave of worry, but also confidence: he could tell that he could take these guys. He noted the briefcase of money under the desk by one of the men's feet.

"Have a seat," one of them growled in a gravelly voice, "and take off the gloves."

"I assume that's the stuff," another rasped as he sat down with a straight face, slowly pulling off his gloves and placing them on the table.

"Indeed," Dream answered solemnly. He placed it on the table in front of him and the guy in the middle raised an eyebrow.

"Marv, count 'em. I've heard you Inferno guys are a bit sketchy... try and scam people," he said, clearly suspicious of Dream. The aforementioned placed his hands on the table with each corresponding fingertip touching in a confident manner. Although he put on this front, his mind was racing back to the two baggies that the police confiscated.

"Come, on. I'm just here to deliver and collect. I don't want trouble." Dream used an emotionless voice, although there was an edge of arrogance.

"So are we."

The tension in the air was so tough you could cut it only with a chainsaw. The guy counting was sifting through the baggies silently in concentration and Dream could tell that the situation was about to get awkward if no one said anything. But he remained silent to keep any kind of leverage he might have had.

"298. Two short."

Shit.

"Looks like you're short. Care to explain yourself?" the guy in the middle menaced.