Polygraph's smile is a slash across his face, cruel and out of place. He pockets the knife, leaving a sting behind on my knuckle, a small cut that's barely a promise of what's to come. "Don't piss yourself now, kid," he says, and there's laughter in his voice, a sound that doesn't reach his hidden eyes. "I'm in a good mood. Next fuck up, I'm taking your pinky for real."

The laughter spreads like a disease, Tyrannosaur's booming, the underlings' a chorus of hyenas. Even I'm chuckling, a nervous, jagged sound that scrapes at my throat. It's a good mood, alright, the kind that prefaces a storm.

Then, without warning, Polygraph's fist slams into my face. My head snaps back, a bright flare of pain, and my nose is suddenly a faucet of blood. I try to reel back, but Tyrannosaur's grip on my wrist is a shackle I can't shake.

"You think getting my money back is enough?" Polygraph's voice is a whip-crack, fury wrapped in velvet. "You think the money will make things right?"

I'm trying to focus, but the room's tilting, the taste of iron thick in my mouth. "Don't you know about the time value of money, you dumb bitch?" He's in my face now, his breath hot against my skin. "That's two weeks of investments and deals you've made us miss out on. Money becomes drugs becomes more money. You lost more than what you lost. Who beat you up?" he demands. "Who took the fucking money, Aaron?"

I'm sputtering, blood and words. "Some psycho bitch named Wolf," I gasp out, the fear of God - or maybe just the fear of Polygraph - lighting a fire under my ass. "And her fucking boyfriend. Safe or whatever."

He's nodding, but there's no agreement in it, just an acknowledgment that I'm still useful, still a tool to be wielded. I'm spilling my guts now, desperate to paint the picture, to make him see. "We held our ground, gave as good as we got. It was a real brawl, the kind that makes you wonder if you're gonna walk away from it. But these kids, they've got some tricks, fighting like they're possessed or something. It was like nothing I've seen before."

"In the end, they managed to slip through our fingers - barely. It was a close call, could've gone either way, really. But they got lucky, pulled some stunts that caught us off guard. I managed to land a few good ones on them, make no mistake. They're not gonna forget they crossed paths with us."

I'm rambling, the room spinning a slow waltz around me. "I know we took a hit, but it wasn't for lack of competence. We were set up to win; it was just… one of those days, you know? You can bet they paid a price for their little stunt, and next time - there won't be a next time for them."

Polygraph is staring at me, and I can't tell if he's buying it, if my desperation's woven the right story. Then, slowly, he nods. "I believe you, Aaron."

Tyrannosaur's hand finally lets go, and my wrist is my own again. I'm rubbing it, feeling the blood pulse hot and fast beneath the skin. I'm swaying on my feet, the room's laughter echoing in my ears like a funeral dirge. Probably got a concussion. Doc's not gonna like that.

"You're not a total waste of space, it turns out," Polygraph continues, and I straighten up, focusing on him. "The girl, the one you call Wolf, she's a junior cape. Bloodhound, they call her. Part of the DVD." He pauses, letting the name hang heavy between us. "Mr. Tyrannosaur here just had a chat with her family home." His lip curls into a sneer. "But she's still poking her nose into our affairs. She's a nuisance. A thorn."

I listen, every muscle tensed, every nerve on fire. This isn't just about survival now. This is personal.

"She's been busy," he goes on. "Messed up a deal with the Phreaks. Showed up at the nightclub, Mr. Mudslide's initiation. Everywhere we turn, this toddler's stepping on our toes. Getting her fucking puppy nose in our business."

The room's gone quiet now, the laughter dying like the last gasps of someone being strangled. I can feel everyone's eyes on me, waiting.

"Here's your assignment." Polygraph's voice is a blade, each word a cut. "Whack Bloodhound. Do that, and you're back in with us. No need for money. No hustling. Show us you can get the job done, and you're golden. That's it!"

I'm barely breathing. Killing a cape, a kid, it shouldn't make a difference. It's a job like any other. But this kid, this Bloodhound, she's the reason my shoulder will never be the same, the reason I'm standing here, fighting for scraps from these vultures. I'm trying to restrain a grin like I'm a toddler being handed cotton candy. Can't look too bloodthirsty in front of professionals.

Polygraph doesn't look like he's taking any pleasure from this. I have to mirror him. He's an old loon but he's got the experience I need.

Polygraph leans in, and I can see my reflection in those sunglasses, a man on the edge. "We're busy, dealing with the adult shit here, Aaron. So you get to play in the kiddie pool. And if you can't handle some children, maybe this lifestyle isn't for you."

The knife is back in his hand, a silent exclamation point to his words. "This lifestyle isn't for you," he says, and I hear the unspoken follow-up: "we will gut you like a fish."

I know the score. Retirements are not accepted.

I don't flinch. Let them think they've got me caged, a dog on a leash. But inside, I'm a bonfire of rage. I don't give a damn about killing a kid. Bloodhound, Wolf, whatever name she goes by, I'll burn her to ashes. I'll love it. But I keep my face blank, give them nothing.

"I'll do it," I say, and my voice is steady, cold. "Consider it done."

The room seems to breathe again, the tension bleeding away. Polygraph nods, satisfied. Tyrannosaur's chuckling, that rumble from deep in his chest. And the underlings, they're shifting, whispering. They think they know me. They think they've seen what I can do. "I'd give you her name and address, but I don't want to make this easy mode for you. Find her yourself, or you're a waste of our investments," Polygraph breathes, retracting the blade of his utility knife. He spins it around his fingers. He shoves it in his pocket.

But they haven't seen anything yet.

The door's unlocked now, and I walk out, my steps sure and silent. The alley greets me, a dark mouth ready to swallow me whole. The city smells like blood and smoke, and somewhere out there, Bloodhound is living her life, unaware that she's now prey.

I'll track her, find her when she's alone. I'll make it quick, maybe. Depends on how I feel. Depends on how loud she screams. I'll be the last thing she sees, a shadow turning to flame.

And then I'll come back to Polygraph and Tyrannosaur, and I'll drop whatever's left of their little problem at their feet. And I'll watch them, watch as they realize they were wrong about me. I'm not just some thug to be kicked around. I'm ready to play in the big pool. I'm the fucking Olympic swimmer here. I'm going to blow all these old timers out of the fucking water.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

The alley's empty as I start the long walk back to my place. I'm thinking, planning. I need to be careful, smart. I need to watch my back, because the DVD will be looking for their missing pup. But I'm looking forward to it, to the hunt.

The thought of Bloodhound, of ending her, it's a spark in the dark, a promise of warmth.

Feels good.

----------------------------------------

The door slams behind me, a punctuation mark on the sentence of my predicament. My apartment greets me with silence, the only welcome I'm liable to get these days. It's a sanctuary of sorts, four walls that ask no questions and harbor all kinds of secrets.

The cracked mirror on the wall reflects a man broken down to his base parts, a raw, unfiltered version of myself. Polygraph's parting gift throbs at the center of my face, a broken nose that's skewed the landscape of my features. Mama always called me a handsome boy. Gotta set it right, can't afford to look weak, not now. Gotta fix that handsomeness. No girl's gonna fuck me with a crooked nose.

I rummage through the mess that pretends to be my medicine cabinet, finding the sorry excuse for a first aid kit. It's a collection of half-used tubes and bandages that have seen better days. No painkillers; used the last for my shoulder. This is gonna be a raw ride. I take a deep breath. I have nobody here to impress besides myself. I take another deep breath.

I position myself in front of the mirror, fingers prodding the tender flesh of my nose. It's a riot of pain, but I've always been good at pain. The first push sends spikes of white-hot agony through my skull, and I clamp down on the urge to scream. Grit and bear it, that's the McKinley way. That's what papa taught me.

The only way out is through.

Crack. The sound is sickening, a noise no living thing should make. My vision swims, darkens at the edges, but I'm not done. Once more, I tell

myself. Crack. Fresh blood snakes down my lip, warm and coppery, a stark contrast to the cold sweat on my brow. Pushing and prodding the bones back

into place. Adjusting them until they feel like they're aligned correctly. I'll go rob some chucklefuck crossing the bridge and then go bother Doc again. Yeah. That's a good plan.

I brace against the sink, the world tilting dangerously. Honor, what a joke. Street thugs aiming for stars that are just shattered glass on asphalt. But there's pride there, too, the misplaced pride of a man who refuses to stay down, who sets his own bones and writes his own story. That's me. That's what I do.

I wrap my face with bandages, a mummy in my own tomb. It's a makeshift job, but it'll hold. It has to. There's no room for error, not with the task ahead. Bloodhound, the kid cape, she's out there, and she's my ticket back to the table.

Snot nosed little brat. Useless cunt. Could've been something good with teeth like that. She bites like one of us. Like she's got something to lose. Not like one of those fucking capes. She bites like someone with a chip on her shoulder. It's almost a shame I'm going to have to turn her into a charcoal briquette.

I lean back against the cold tiles, letting the pain wash over me in waves. It's a pain I can control, a pain I can fight. Not like the gnawing fear of what's to come, the uncertainty that dogs my every step. But that fear, it's a fire, too. It'll keep me warm on the streets tonight.

Fuck my "gang". The Coyotes are dead. Long live the Coyote.

----------------------------------------

The snow's coming down like ash from a snuffed-out fire, blanketing the city in white that turns to gray slush beneath the feet of the rushing crowd. The world's muted, sounds muffled, but the cold bites sharp and clean. I'm leaning against the graffitied wall of an abandoned warehouse down near the docks, a good place for quiet talks. My breath clouds in front of me, a ghost of heat in the chill air.

Pumice walks up, his steps heavy, leaving deep impressions in the fresh snow. He's a walking mountain, his skin the color of storm clouds before they break. The Sixers jersey he's wearing is stretched tight over his rocky frame, the bright colors a stark contrast to the drab surroundings. It's tacky, almost comical, but the guy's made of stone; you don't laugh at a man who can take a sledgehammer to the face and not flinch.

"Heard we might have some enemies in common," I say, my voice steady despite the cold that's gnawing at my bones.

Pumice grunts, noncommittal, his eyes like chips of flint. "Yeah?" he says, and there's an edge to it, a sharpness. "Get to the point. I don't really care about this drama shit."

I push off from the wall, step into his space. It's like standing next to a boulder, immovable, solid. "Well, there's this girl named Bloodhound, and I hear she got Patches locked up."

Pumice's expression doesn't change, but something in the air does, a current of interest, maybe. "What about her?"

I can see my plan taking shape, a path through the snow. "Well, I've got friends who want her out of the picture, and I'm the one that's gonna whack her. It'll be more fun with friends." I let the words hang between us, an invitation. His gaze is steady, unreadable. "And I hear you've got a secret weapon that'll make things easier."

There's a pause, the world holding its breath. Then he nods, once. "I'm listening…"

The snow's still falling, each flake a whisper of white against his dark form. We're two shadows in a world gone white, plotting in the silence. The conversation turns to murmurs, plans laid out in half-sentences and gestures, the details for us alone. The city around us is a painting, all broad strokes of color and light, and we're the dark lines that will cut through it.

As we talk, the plan takes shape, a sculpture in the snow. The cold's a knife, but it hones my thoughts, sharpens them. Pumice is a weapon, but I'm the hand that will wield him. Together, we'll carve a path through the city, through the capes, right to Bloodhound.

We don't shake on it; our words are bond enough, a contract written in frost and shadow. As he walks away, his steps are purposeful, leaving a trail that will soon be covered by the ceaseless fall of snow.

The world is white and silent, but beneath it, there's a rumble, a promise of violence to come. I turn my collar up against the cold and head back into the city. The snow's still falling, but I'm burning inside, a fire that no winter can touch. Bloodhound's days are numbered, and the countdown has just begun.

----------------------------------------

I'm outside Tacony Charter Academy High School, a building that looks more like a museum than any school I've ever known. It's all clean lines and big windows, the snow sticking to it like it belongs there. Kids are spilling out the doors, a flood of chatter and laughter. They're bundled up against the cold, wrapped in coats that cost more my parents ever made in a month.

There's a festering resentment in my gut as I watch them, these pampered children with their futures all laid out. They don't know a damn thing about the life I've lived. Not a clue about 'alternative school' - those holding pens for kids like me - or the lessons you learn when the street's your teacher. They've never felt the sting of a belt that teaches respect the right way.

I'm just another shadow in the throng, wrapped up in an old jacket, trying to look like I'm not a predator among sheep. My eyes scan the crowd, sharp and searching. Curly brown hair, plenty of those, but then I zero in on the eyes, the brown-amber, the caucasity — that's who I'm here for. She's the reason I'm standing here with a crooked nose and a fucked up shoulder. She's the reason I walked with a limp for a month. She's the one who brought me low, and now I'm here, just to get a glimpse of her without that mask she hides behind.

I see her then, moving through the crowd. She's quiet. Sunken. Her eyes scanning the ground, not looking up. She doesn't see me, doesn't know I'm here. Good. I want it that way — for now. But when I burn her to a crisp, she'll know it was me.

Her friends are around her, a protective flock. She's the queen bee, the one with the sting. I watch how she moves. The way she tries to hide her body, even when it's clear she's strong enough to knock out any of her pussy friends in one punch. It's just the way she carries herself even when she's trying to look like a melodramatic little tween. Waste of space. "Bully hunter" - don't make me laugh. She's got power. Power that she doesn't know how to control. Not yet.

But I do. I know all about power. And when the time comes, I'll show her just how much she has to learn.

The kids start to break off, scattering like leaves in the wind. Buses pull up, their doors hissing open like serpents ready to swallow their prey. She heads for one, her friends in tow, still laughing around her, still oblivious.

I commit her face to memory, the lines of it, the shape. I burn it into my brain because next time we meet, things are going to be different. Next time, I'll be ready.

Her name is Samantha fucking Small.