Hide under the bed

You doubt you will remain unseen if you make a run for it and discretion has always been your sharpest sword. So, playing the waiting game it is. Your slim figure is helpful here, allowing you to slip in the limited space under the bedframe without much difficulty. It's dusty, a little grimy even, but you've been in worse crawlspaces so far. To your frustration it takes George a while to make himself known. You hear him walking about in the kitchen downstairs, the water gets turned on and off a couple of times and after what feels like a small eternity you finally hear him talk as he approaches the bedroom:

"I told you, I will handle it. Fuck my life, get off my balls, man. I'm doing what I can, okay? Listen, you're not the one that has to cover for this shit. It's hot merchandise, so treat it with some respect. This isn't your average street hustle anymore. Find the second shipment and not a word to anyone about it, alright?"

From your observation you know George to be a bit of a brute. Big burly guy, with solid mixture of fat and muscle, staving off the signs of aging just barely with the exception of his brown stubble earning itself the solidified salt-grey. You see him step in, just below the waist. New pants, new boots - Expensive stuff by the looks of it. Too expensive, even for his dealings. Seems like he is moving up in the world. He throws himself on the bed with an exasperated groan as he hangs up, muttering to himself about "Milk being more hassle than it's worth." Then you hear him dial another number.

"Hi, Denise? Yeah, it's me George." He says, his tone more somber, worried even, "Listen, I need to ask a favor. Yeah, another one, I'm sorry. Gotta meet - Can't do this over the phone, a bit too spicy you know? No, no, it's not the usual. I'm asking for help, believe it or not....Okay, I can wait, just leave me a message or call me back, alright? It's important."

And there he goes, hanging up on another swift call. He seems stressed, muttering some curses to himself, not directed at anyone in particular, before he moves about the room, clearly looking for something. Before he gets the idea to look under the bed proper, he thankfully figures out where his syringes are stashed. He grabs the suitcase and rushes out the door again. You hear a couple of doors, then there's silence. You do not hear the car's engine, nor any footsteps downstairs.