Maybe she’s a solution. Maybe a spark. Maybe just a distraction.
But I keep seeing her eyes.
She looked at me like she was measuring, not reacting.
Most people don’t look at me like that. They flinch. They posture. She calculated.
I reach the turn at the edge of the boardwalk where the old pier juts out like a broken limb. Lights are busted. The railing’s rusted through. The only reason anyone comes out here is to dump something—or someone.
I spot them quick.
Two men.
Marco’s guys, judging by the sloppy stance and tacky bomber jackets. One’s leaning against the half-collapsed shack, arms crossed. The other’s pacing, checking a phone. They’re not careful. They think the darkness protects them.
I step around the nearest post and move without sound.
The pacing one hears me first—too late.
He turns and his mouth opens.
I don’t let him speak.
My blade’s out, slicing through his neck in a clean, hard line. Arterial. Blood jets and he drops hard.
The other tries to react, hand going for his jacket.
I cross the space in two strides and slam him against the shack wall, forearm crushing his throat. His hand fumbles at his waistline.
“Don’t,” I say.
He freezes. Eyes wild.
“Tell Marco he’s not subtle. And that I’m done waiting for him to grow a pair.”
I dig the blade in under his ribs—not enough to kill. Just enough to keep him bleeding while he limps home.
He screams when I yank the knife back out.
I don’t care.
He crumples to the floor, hands pressing into the mess at his side.
I wipe the blade on his jacket, step back, and look down at the bodies.
One’s still. One’s shaking.
No threat left.
The waves crash against the wooden supports below. The sound swallows everything. Blood drips between the boards, washed away by saltwater and time.
I walk back without looking over my shoulder.
The boardwalk feels thinner on the return. Lighter. That’s what violence does—it takes up space and then leaves a vacuum.
My feet hit pavement again as the mist thickens.
I mutter the name under my breath.