The neon light spasmed against the wet pavement, the bar's doorway swallowing men whole. Inside, the air was thick with ghosts of old tobacco and the sweat of men who drank to forget but never could.
In a corner booth, a man sat with the weight of the city in his glass. His fingers traced the rim, slow, deliberate, his other hand resting on the table, fingers curled like a viper waiting to strike. The whiskey trembled, the ice shifting with the faint, rhythmic tap of his fingertips.
Across from him, the city councilman shifted, the chair groaning beneath his weight. Sweat darkened the collar of his silk shirt, the fabric clinging to the damp rolls of his flesh. His eyes flickered to the entrance, then back to the man across from him, fingers twitching like a gambler on a losing streak.
"You're asking for a lot," the councilman muttered, voice barely rising above the low murmur of conversation. "This kind of thing—it doesn't just disappear."
A slow sip. A calculated pause. Then the man leaned forward, voice a razor drawn across the space between them.
"You want the waterfront project, don't you? The casinos, the hotels, the contracts." His voice was silk and steel, coiling around the councilman's throat. "I'm handing it to you. All you have to do is let one… insignificant thing slip through the cracks."
The councilman swallowed hard. The air between them thickened, heavy with unspoken horrors. He already knew what that "insignificant thing" was.
"Accidents happen," the man continued, the ghost of a smile curling at the edges of his lips. "People fall. People get lost. People vanish." A beat of silence. "It's a big city."
The pause stretched, brittle as old bones.
Then, an exhale. A small nod.
"Fine."
A deal struck. A life traded.
Outside, the neon light sputtered, a dying thing clinging to its last breath.
---
The scent of jasmine lingers in the air. A contrast—soft, untouched by the filth waded through every day.
She stands in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in an old shirt. The fabric swallows her frame, except where it stretches over the curve of her stomach. The bedside lamp casts her in amber light, shadow curling around her like protective hands.His jasmine.
"You're late." Teasing, but there's something behind her eyes. Something that coils, tight and worried, beneath her ribs.
A step forward. Hands find the curve of her hips. A forehead presses against hers.
For a moment, the world outside ceases to exist.
"I know."
"Are you being careful?" Softer, now.
A pause.
A smirk.
"No."
She sighs. Lips press against a rough jawline. Exasperated. Loving.
"You're impossible."
A kiss steals away any protest.
----
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The club pulsed with bass, a low, insidious thrum that rattled ribs and settled deep in the bones. Smoke curled from the ashtray, empty glasses piling up like discarded sins.
In the corner booth, a man flicked his lighter, the flame briefly illuminating the smirk stretched across his face—lean, sharp, built for the kind of work that left bruises. Across from him, another man leaned back, heavy and sweat-slicked, exhaling a plume of smoke, the cherry-red glow of his cigarette flickering in his eyes. Between them, dressed too neatly for the filth around him, a third man counted a stack of bills, lips curling at the weight of his own fortune.
And then—
"Another broad got herself killed," the well-dressed man muttered, tapping ash onto the table. "Stupid thing never shut up. Can you believe that?"
A laugh. The fit one, shaking his head, amused.
"Pregnant, too," the fat one added, voice laced with something close to pity—though the smirk never left his lips. A coin rolled across his knuckles, catching the dim light. "Christ."
Another laugh. All three of them.
But I didn't.
Not because I cared. I didn't. People died every day. People disappeared. People suffered. That was life. That was the city.
I took a sip of whiskey, the burn crawling down my throat. No skipped pulse. No change in breath.
I had killed before. Had done worse than these men. Had watched people bleed out, gasping for air that would never come. Had sent men to early graves without a second thought.
I had stolen. Beaten men half to death. Let them take what they wanted from women who had no way to fight back. I let it happen because it didn't matter. Because it paid well. Because I wanted to.
So why should this be any different?
I kept working with them. Because that's what I did.
----
As he was going home they sent him a vedio tape to watch as soon as he hits home to make it more fun he went home and put the tape in ans let it record while he went up to check up on his darling wife and the cutie within.
The tape played in suffocating silence.
Her screams had been stripped from the footage, leaving only the mechanical hum of the recording—a mercy, perhaps.
Her body jerked, contorted, wrenched apart by hands that had forgotten what it meant to be human. The men took turns. They laughed. Their faces blurred into formless shadows, indistinguishable from the monsters they were.
Her fingers clawed at the floor, nails snapping, tearing, desperate to find something—anything—to hold on to.
A boot crushed her wrist. A bone snapped.
Blood pooled beneath her, soaking into the wood, dark and endless. A brutal hand pressed against her swollen stomach. The silent footage captured her mouth opening in a scream that would never be heard.
They wanted her to suffer. They wanted him to see.
The screen went black.
A single cigarette burned in the ashtray beside him, smoke curling toward the ceiling like a whisper from the grave.
His hands trembled. His breath came in ragged bursts. His bones ached beneath the weight of what had been taken.
A hollow man sat in the dark.
Inside him, the void howled.
He arrived, dropped his coat by the door, and made his way upstairs. A routine check-in—his darling wife, the cutie within. The only things untouched by the filth he waded through daily.
But the bedroom was empty.
The sheets lay undisturbed. The scent of jasmine still clung to the air, but there was no warmth, no whispered greeting, no soft laughter. A silence that didn't belong here settled over the space.
A strange feeling crept up his spine, gnawing at the back of his mind.
Thinking back on the events of the day, an idea took root—a terrible, twisting thing. It was common practice, after all. They always recorded their work, their violence, their fun. It wasn't unusual for them to send a tape afterward, a game to see if they'd left behind any evidence. They killed. They erased. And then they watched to see what possible way he will find the clues.So he played it.
The television flickered, jittery light licking at the walls. The footage played in suffocating silence.
Her screams had been stripped away, leaving only the mechanical hum of the recording—a final insult, a mercy he hadn't earned.
She was already broken when the footage began—nose shattered, blood bubbling at her lips, one eye swollen shut. Bruises bloomed across her skin in violent shades of purple and black, staining the once-soft curves he knew so well. Her dress was torn, her bare skin marked with cuts, handprints, cruelty.
Her body convulsed, wrenched apart by hands that had long forgotten what it meant to be human. The men took turns, their movements methodical, practiced. They laughed—silent in the muted film, but their joy was written in every cruel motion. Their faces blurred into smudges of shadow, indistinct and monstrous.
One of them grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head back until her throat was bared, her pulse frantic beneath bruised skin. Another man pressed a knife to her cheek, the blade tracing lazy patterns, not cutting—yet. Teasing. Amused. She tried to turn away, but they wouldn't let her.
Her fingers clawed at the floor, nails splintering, leaving raw streaks of flesh against the wood.
A boot came down. A brittle snap. Her wrist bent backward, a grotesque, useless thing.
Blood spread beneath her, dark and insatiable, soaking into the floorboards, feeding the house itself. A hand—rough, unrelenting—pressed against her swollen stomach, fingers digging deep, kneading flesh with perverse curiosity. She sobbed then, shaking her head, whispering something he couldn't hear. Pleading.
A sharp laugh from one of them. The blade found its mark this time. A slow drag across her belly—not deep, but enough. Enough for her to feel it. Enough for her to know.
Her mouth opened in a scream that would never be heard.
And then, just as he had taught them, they erased every trace.
The room, the body, the blood—it was as if nothing had ever happened.
A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray beside him, the ember pulsing like a dying heartbeat. Smoke curled upward, whispering to the ceiling.
His hands trembled. His breath came jagged, shallow, burning. His bones ached beneath the crushing weight of what had been stolen.
He sat in the dark, hollowed out, gutted from the inside.
A few seconds of silence.
Then, Michael Cornors smiled and took a deep breath.
Daniel Figuero.
Elias Carter.
Gregory Wallace.