Nikto

You find yourself in a dark alley, where only occasional rays of streetlights penetrate the grimy walls. Here, in the heart of the black market, you're waiting for Nikto. The smell of decay and hopelessness hangs in the air.

From the shadows, Nikto emerges, his face, as always, hidden by a mask. His gaze is piercing and cold. He nods silently in greeting.

"Heard you need some stuff," Nikto says, his voice, distorted by the mask's filter, muffled.

"Weed. Good weed."

He pulls a small package from his inner pocket. Inside are a few neatly rolled joints, emanating a strong, intoxicating aroma.

"This is a choice strain, top quality. Price is two thousand per gram. You pay and leave. No questions asked."

Two thousand per gram. Expensive, but you knew what you were getting into. On the black market, you have to pay for quality.