The city breathes in whispers, and he listens. Rain slides down his coat, pooling in the cracks of the pavement, washing away everything but the weight in his pockets and the smoke curling from his lips. The streetlight above hums, flickering like a bad memory, casting shadows that stretch too far and know too much.
They said to meet here. They said it would be simple. But nothing ever is. A name scribbled on a matchbook, a promise made in the wrong bar, and now the night feels heavier than usual. Somewhere behind those blacked-out windows, someone is waiting—watching.
Maybe it’s a friend. Maybe it’s a ghost.
The cigarette burns low. The clock keeps moving. A choice lingers in the air like the scent of gunpowder after the shot’s been fired.
This piece is for those who know that some questions don’t have answers, only consequences.
