"Nine hundred. Nine fifty. Thousand flat."
Jace Marrow's fingers were fast but steady, moving with the kind of rhythm you only get from doing this kind of thing for way too long. The cash smelled like sweat, rubber bands, and desperation. His partner—Rico—was grinning like they'd won a championship. Like it was over.
It wasn't over.
They sat in the back room of a casino buried beneath a closed-down laundromat. The kind of place that looked abandoned from the outside but had a line of addicts by 9 p.m. and an armed exit by midnight.
"One job. Clean run. Ten grand." Rico leaned back, arms stretched, like he could finally breathe. "Ain't it crazy, man? From boosting scratch cards to fleecing card sharks. We're up now."
Jace didn't look up. He kept counting, slow and methodical.
"We're never up," said a voice across the table.
Rico didn't hear it. Rook leaned forward in his chair—same face, different soul. Hair slicked. Rings on his fingers. Dressed like he thought he was royalty in a world that respected none.
Rook:"Reminiscing with Rico now? Cute. You really pretending you two are brothers in arms?"
Jace ignored him.
Rico:"Remember back in Scarborough? That 7-Eleven job where you forgot your gloves and almost left a whole thumbprint on the counter?"
Jace smiled faintly. "Didn't forget. Just wanted to see if you'd catch it."
"Liar," Rico laughed.
Rook (grinning):"You liked him. Back then. Trusted him, even."
Jace: "Shut up."
Rico: "What?"
Jace: "Nothing."
Back in the room.
Rook:"And now you'll bury all that for ten grand and a little silence. Cold-blooded, man."
Jace didn't answer.
He stood up. Walked toward the far corner. Adjusted his sleeve. Tapped twice on the corner of the busted security panel with a coin. Once on the air vent. The signal.
Rico (watching):"What was that?"
"Just habit." Jace zipped his jacket. "You got a ride home?"
"Thought we were going to Chinatown. Food and drinks."
Jace paused. "Rain check."
Then came the sirens.Low at first. Getting closer. Building.
Rico:"Jace… what the hell is that?"
Jace didn't answer. He walked past him. Calm.
Rico (turning):"Wait—what did you do?"
BOOM.
Doors burst open. Riot gear. Shouting. The casino cracked wide. Tables overturned. Chips scattered. People ran.
Jace didn't flinch. Hands loose by his sides. He kept walking.
The cops didn't stop him.
They tackled Rico.
Rico (struggling):"YO! JACE—!"
Jace stepped out through the back hallway. Lit a cigarette. Didn't look back.
Wah Fat Express — 2:07 A.M.
Steam poured from the cracked glass door. The place was bright, ugly, and beautiful in the way only a real dive could be. Fluorescent lights flickered. Plastic chairs. Soy sauce rings on every table. A fat golden cat waved nonstop on the front counter.
Mr. Wen was behind it. A man who'd once been dangerous, now only tired.
Mr. Wen (without looking):"You look like sh*t. Extra sauce?"
Jace slid into the far booth. "Extra sauce."
Wen came over a few minutes later with a hot plate—orange chicken, fried rice, dumplings. Coke in a glass bottle.
Mr. Wen:"Rain's bad tonight. Business slow. Trouble?"
Jace:"No more than usual."
Rook appeared across from him, already mid-bite into an invisible dumpling. Same smirk.
Rook:"You really did it. Sold out the only person left who didn't want you dead."
Jace opened the Coke. Took a sip.
Rook:"You know what the worst part is? You're not even sad. You're bored."
Jace:"I'm alive. That's enough."
Mr. Wen passed by again. Dropped a soy sauce packet. Patted Jace on the shoulder.
Mr. Wen:"Don't get killed tonight, yeah? You still owe me for the Rosedale thing."
Jace (light):"One day I'll pay that back."
Mr. Wen:"You never will. That's why I like you."
The bell above the door jingled.
Two men walked in. Black jackets. Gloves. No umbrella.
They didn't order anything.
Rook (not looking):"They followed you here. Not smart of them."
Jace kept eating. Slower.
Jace:"They've been watching me since the alley."
Rook:"Then why the f*ck are you still sitting?"
Jace stood. Dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the table. "For the meal."
Mr. Wen:"Come back next week."
Jace:"If I'm breathing."
Backstreets — 2:29 A.M.
Rain tapped the pavement like it was trying to remember a rhythm.
Jace walked through the maze of old shop fronts and alleyways, hands in his coat, hood up. His reflection blinked at him from puddles and shuttered windows.
Behind him: footsteps. Quiet. Controlled. Predictable.
He didn't run. He turned left. Then right. Then ducked under a rusted sign into a dead-end alley, the kind that didn't even try to lie about what it was.
Cracked pavement. Overflowing bins. One flickering light overhead.
Jace lit another cigarette. Took a long drag. Waited.
Rook leaned against the wall beside him.
Rook:"You really think they're here for a conversation?"
Jace:"No."
Rook:"Think you'll win?"
Jace:"Doesn't matter."
Footsteps stopped at the alley mouth.
Two figures. No words.
Jace:"You picked a bad night."
They stepped forward. One reached into his coat.
Jace flicked the cigarette aside and moved.
The first one didn't even have time to draw. Jace closed the distance, shoved him into the wall, and drove a knee into his stomach. The second lunged with a blade—sloppy.
Jace ducked under the swing, elbowed him in the throat, and kicked his legs out. He hit the ground hard.
First guy was up again. Jace caught a jab to the ribs, twisted, and slammed him headfirst into the dumpster. Metal rang.
The second got one lucky swipe—cut Jace's arm shallow—but Jace didn't stop. He grabbed his wrist, broke it at the joint, and let the knife drop.
Both men were on the ground. Breathing. Moaning. Alive, but broken.
Jace stood over them, bleeding from the forearm. Breathing steady.
Rook (whistling softly):"Messier than usual. You slipping?"
Jace didn't answer. Just turned, pulled his hood tighter, and walked out the other end of the alley.
Motel Room 3C — 3:04 A.M.
The room was barely a room. Four walls, yellowed from mold and smoke. The floor was tile. No bed. Just a mat. No windows. Just the sound of the fridge humming out of tune.
Ants crawled along the baseboard like tenants that never paid rent.
Jace stepped in. Closed the door. Locked it.
In the corner: a rocking chair. Old. Wood chipped. Bent slightly left.
Rook was asleep in it.
Hands folded. Head tilted back. Rocking slowly. Smiling.
Jace took off his coat. Dropped it to the floor. Pulled off his boots. No blanket. No pillow.
He laid down on the mat.
Stared at the ceiling.
And said nothing.