I slam the door shut and lean back against the cool metal, tipping my head toward the night sky as smoke spills from my lungs.
Breathe.
Then I hear it.
The faintest rustle behind me.
Not wind. Not an animal.
Human.
My spine straightens instantly, and the cigarette pauses at my lips as muscle memory kicks in.
I take another drag, eyes unfocused, while my other hand slides down, unholstering my gun inch-by-inch.
One.
Two.
Three.
I flick the cigarette to the ground and pivot in one smooth motion, gun up, arm locked, aim steady.
A hooded figure stands across the street, half swallowed by shadow. My pulse thunders, but my grip doesn’t waver. If I pull the trigger, the sound will echo, and I have no doubt someone will call the cops.
I can’t afford that.
This has to be quiet.
I step forward, lowering my voice but not my weapon.
“Wrong house,” I say evenly.
The figure doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just shifts their weight slightly, like they’re deciding whether to run or rush me.
Big mistake either way.
I move first.
Crossing the street in three long strides, I close the distance before they can react. My gun presses into their ribs as my free hand grabs the front of their hoodie and slams them back against the brick wall.
“Who sent you?” I growl low, right in their ear.
They shake their head, breathing fast. I smell cheap cologne and fear.
“Wrong answer.”
I twist their arm up behind their back until bones grind and they cry out, the sound choked off by my shoulder.
“Say her name,” I warn. “And you live.”
Silence.
Then, barely audible, “I was just watching.”
My blood goes ice cold. “Watching who?”
They hesitate, and I apply pressure.
