pugod

For three weeks now, Pugod had been lugging around a folder containing the same damn case. Someone was selling junk, and on a large scale, throughout the city. And Pugod's job, as a police officer, was to catch him as quickly as possible. But time was ticking, and the criminal was still at large. And the man's promotion was at stake.

After another workday, Pugod decided to stop by a bar he frequented. There was progress in the case, so it was worth noting. There were far fewer suspects, and the search area had narrowed considerably. It wouldn't be long before this drug dealer fell for his trick.

Meanwhile, the man sat down at the high bar. Dim light fell on him, and a handsome bartender emerged from the shadows. Pugod had seen him here before and could already tell he was polite and very pleasant to talk to. Pugod glanced at his chest. A light-colored badge bore an intriguing name: Sanchez.

— Sanchez, a shot of whiskey, please.

The young man nodded and with deft movements poured whiskey into a square glass.

Pugod didn't yet know that Sanchez had used those same hands that morning to deliver a large shipment of drugs directly to the drug dealers. But the young bartender knew Pugod by heart. Even though he hadn't introduced himself.