Nothing about my placement is accidental. The mirror behind the bar shows me everything I need to see—exits, corridors, faces coming and going.
The dim lighting hides most things, but not from me. Every surface gleams, but none of itreflects the truth.
Illusion is currency here.
That’s the charm.
It’s also the threat.
Four exits. One by the bar. Two unmarked at the back. One through the kitchen. I can hit any of them within five seconds. Ten if I’m hauling dead weight. Less if they’re bleeding out.
I track every face without making it obvious. Eyes. Hands. Posture. Threat level. Kill difficulty.
Old habits don’t die. They sharpen.
A woman two booths down keeps glancing over, trying to reel me in. She wants to be seen… considered… chosen.
She won’t be because I don’t fall for that kind of distraction.
I’m not here for her. I’m here for the kill.
Tonight, Silas Rourke dies.
I monitor the door, scanning every man who enters. No sign of Rourke yet.
I don’t twitch or drink. The predator in me is calm, masking the violence underneath.
The bartender’s mid-thirties, square build. The kind who served the minimum, never saw combat, and won’t shut up about his time overseas. Brags as though he single-handedly won Afghanistan. Keeps a gun under the bar that he believes no one notices. He’d last two seconds against me. One if he tried to be a hero.
I check in the mirror again. Rear exits. Hallway shadows. Still no Rourke. He’s late.
The bastard thinks he’s meeting a sixteen-year-old girl tonight. Sweet, naive, chasing the dream of becoming a star—his favorite kind of prey.
We’ve been messaging for weeks. He thinks he’s luring a lamb. He doesn’t see the wolf already at his throat.
The song overhead fades, replaced by something slower. Norah Jones—smoke and sorrow wrapped in piano. A song I remember too well.
Aimee loved Norah Jones.
My chest tightens. Not enough to show, not enough to crack me open in this place. But the ache is there—low and constant—acting as an old wound that never healed right.
“Don’t Know Why.” Her favorite song. She used to hum along, off-key, offbeat, always too loud. She’d sing with her entire chest. It used to make me laugh. Now it makes my throat tighten and my eyes sting.
Aimee was sunshine in human form, loud and alive and too fucking good for this evil world. She was my heart. My compass. Someone I’d have burned down everything to protect.
And they took her away.
I still see their faces. They’re blurred by years, but burned into the back of my skull.
No arrests. No trial. Just statements filed, questions dodged, and then silence.
They walked free.
She didn’t.
Three escaped justice. One protected by a wealthy father. Another shielded by a judge’s debt. The third slipped through because the first two cases collapsed, and no one held him accountable.
All we got was a closed case file and a grave too small to hold the light she carried.
