The man pushed back his chair, the legs scraping lightly against the floor. He rose slowly, slipping the knife into the side of his boot with the ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times before. The bullet he tucked into his coat pocket.
He walked across the room without hurry, his boots echoing softly on the concrete. The body still on the table. Wires hung loose where something had once been connected. The man stopped beside it, tilting his head slightly.
He looked it over like someone reviewing work left half-done. Then, with a breath that was more resigned than frustrated, he muttered, "It didn't take."
His hand brushed the edge of the metal table as he turned away.
He exited through a steel door, pulling it shut behind him. The hallway outside was dim, lit by a single flickering bulb that swung slightly as he passed under it. The corridor stretched long and narrow, lined with crates and discarded gear. A soft clatter echoed from somewhere behind, maybe a rat or something dropped by one of the night runners. He didn't stop to check.
When he stepped out of the alleyway, the sound hit him first—a loud, pulsing roar of voices. The street opened up into a wide, underground arena, built like a pit surrounded by rusted scaffolding and uneven seating. Above, industrial lights buzzed, casting hard shadows across the crowd.
In the center, two men circled each other in a chain-link cage. Their fists were up, bare and already bloodied. People stood along the perimeter, shouting, cheering, waving money in the air. Others sat or leaned against the railings, eyes locked on the fight below.
The man from the room stepped into the space like he'd done it many times before. Familiar. Unbothered. As he moved along the edge of the crowd, someone noticed him—nodded, then looked away just as fast.
He didn't return the gesture. He just kept walking, hands in his coat pockets, head slightly lowered.
There was work to be done.
----------------------------------------
The smell of antiseptic lingered in the room, faint but steady. Machines beeped in the background—quiet, rhythmic. Officer Hale lay motionless in the bed, his face bruised and wrapped in light bandages. Tubes ran from his arms into machines beside him. His eyes hadn't opened since the crash.
Claire sat at his bedside. She hadn't said much in hours. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, and every now and then, a tear would roll down her cheek. She didn't wipe them away—just let them fall.
Across the room, four-year-old Ethan kept himself busy the only way he knew how. He rolled his toy car across the windowsill, the edge of the chair, even across the blanket on his father's legs. To him, it wasn't a hospital. Just another place to play.
"Ethan," Claire said softly, her eyes still on Hale. "Please, sweetheart. Come sit down."
He paused, frowned a little, then walked to the corner of the room and sat on the floor. He held the car in both hands and quietly ran it in slow circles on the tile.
A nurse stepped in with a light knock. She smiled gently at Claire and moved around the room with practiced steps, checking Hale's vitals and making a few notes. After a moment, she nodded slightly and left, pulling the door to behind her.
Ethan's head turned.
He stared at the door, eyes fixed. His car slipped from his hands and tapped the floor.
Standing just outside the room was a little girl. She didn't speak. She didn't move at first. Then, without a word, she turned and walked away, her dress brushing softly along the wall.
Ethan stood and followed, quietly pushing the door open. His bare feet padded softly against the hallway floor as he rounded the corner.
At the end of the corridor, the girl was standing again—this time near the exit. She raised her hand gently, like she wanted him to come with her.
He took one step.
"Ethan!" Claire's voice called sharply behind him.
She was already in the hallway, rushing toward him. She caught his hand before he could go any further.
"Where were you going?" she asked, crouching down, out of breath.
"I saw someone," he said, glancing over his shoulder.
Claire followed his gaze. But the hallway was empty.
She looked back at her son. "Who?"
He just shook his head, then leaned quietly into her arms. Claire picked him up and walked back to the room.
As the door closed behind them, the glass of the exit door cracked.