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"And if you're thinking of me, I'm probably thinking of you."
𝐀𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚
The air was thick with the scent of gasoline and sweat, the dim light casting long shadows in the alleyway. I was standing over him, the man who had hurt her. The girl, one of the many who worked under my command, was barely more than a child. ̶L̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶m̶y̶s̶e̶l̶f̶ ̶. Her tears had mixed with the dirt on her face. She had been broken, her innocence stolen by this monster lying at my feet.
His eyes were wide with terror, a sickening contrast to the smug arrogance he had worn earlier when I found him. He had sneered at me, confident that no one would dare to cross him. But now, as he lay on the ground, he knew. He knew what was coming.
I crouched down, bringing my face close to his. "You hurt her," I whispered, my voice devoid of emotion. It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact. He started to stammer, to plead, but I cut him off with a sharp gesture. "There is nothing you can say that will change what you've done."
In my line of work, morality is a luxury I cannot afford. No one has empathy for us, why should we? That's what we're taught. My hands have been stained with blood for as long as I can remember, each drop a reminder of the world we now live in.
Murdering has become a part of me, an extension of my will to survive in a reality that demands ruthlessness. The act itself feels mechanical, a process as familiar as breathing.
But still— I hate doing it. I know it's part of my job, that I have to defend myself—to defend us—but I wish I could avoid having to do it every time.
But he deserved it. So I'll show no mercy.
I reached into my coat, pulling out the gun that felt like a natural extension of my arm. Its weight was a comforting constant in my hand, a tool that had seen me through countless nights like this one. I pressed the barrel against his forehead, the cold metal causing him to shiver. He whimpered, a pathetic sound that grated against my nerves.
The world seemed to narrow, the edges of my vision darkening until there was nothing but him and me. I could hear his ragged breathing, the frantic beat of his heart, and the soft hum of the city around us.
He started to cry, begging for mercy, but his words washed over me like rain on stone. There was no room for pity in this place, no space for hesitation. I had learned long ago that mercy is a weakness, a chink in the armor that can be exploited. And in this world, survival is the only currency that matters.
