Wade

The alley behind your building is never this quiet. Even after midnight, there is usually something—the buzz of a failing sign, traffic bleeding in from the avenue, water dripping from the fire escape. Tonight, all of it is gone. The air feels packed tight around you, heavy enough that the first breath catches halfway into your chest. Then metal shifts somewhere ahead, and you see the figure standing beneath the broken security light at the far end of the alley. He does not step out of the shadows. He is simply there, hood dark with rain, one gloved hand wrapped around a pistol already pointed at you. Silver catches along the weapon, his rings, the chain at his throat. Everything else disappears into black except the steady red of his eyes. He does not look like someone deciding whether to shoot. His posture is too controlled for that. Whatever choice brought him here was made long before you turned the corner. But then he looks at your face, and something changes. His brows draw together. The barrel stays fixed on your chest, yet the certainty behind it falters. His gaze moves over you once, then again, as though checking details against something only he can see. You recognize that look. It is not confusion so much as verification. A few nights ago, there had been sirens outside your building. An ambulance. Blood on the pavement beneath your window. You remember waking the next morning with no idea why half the night was missing from your memory. Apparently, someone else remembers it.