Detective Soto isn’t looking for an arrest; he’s looking for the finger the Pinky Bandit took from him.
Writer’s Prompt
The neon hum of the “Lido Lounge” flickered against the rain-slicked pavement, casting Javier Soto’s shadow in a jagged, sickly yellow. He felt the weight of the serrated blade in his pocket—a heavy, cold comfort.
Soto didn’t care about the stolen wallets or the frantic police reports. He cared about the ritual. The “Pinky Bandit” wasn’t just a thief; he was a collector of small, useless things. Soto looked down at his own left hand, the gap where his smallest finger used to be still aching with a phantom itch.
He tracked the wet boots into the alley behind 4th Street. There he was: a wiry man in a grease-stained trench coat, cornering a girl whose mascara was running in charcoal rivers. The man’s blade glinted. He wasn’t reaching for her purse. He was reaching for her hand.
“Hey, Bandit,” Soto rasped, his voice like gravel under a boot.
The killer spun, a manic grin stretching a face that looked like unbaked dough. “Detective. You come to give me the matching set?”
Soto didn’t pull his service weapon. He pulled the serrated edge. He had told the precinct he’d bring the guy in. He’d told himself he’d do more than just take one pinky back. He wanted a pound of flesh for every ounce of dignity he’d lost in that basement six months ago.
The Bandit lunged. Soto parried, the metal clashing with a spark that lit up the predator’s eyes. They tumbled into the trash, a blur of rain and rage. Soto pinned him, the blade pressed against the Bandit’s throat, right at the soft spot.
“Do it,” the Bandit whispered, tasting blood. “Become me.”
Soto’s hand trembled. The line between justice and a grudge had dissolved in the rain.
Now, it’s your turn…
Does Soto slide the blade home and lose his badge to the darkness, or does he find the strength to click the handcuffs shut? How does this standoff end?