Writer’s Prompt
The rain didn’t wash the city; it just turned the grime into a slick, black oil. Kyle Ratcliff sat in the dark of the
20th floor, the glowing monitor the only pulse in the room. His neck ached—the price of hours spent hunched over a tripod, peering through a 600mm lens into the private lives of people who thought curtains were optional.
He called it “selective transparency.” The marks called it blackmail. Kyle just called it rent.
He was currently framing a shot of a District Attorney in the adjacent tower, a man currently engaged in something that would definitely ruin his reelection campaign. Kyle’s finger hovered over the shutter. He hated the DA. He hated himself more. Every click of the camera felt like a nail in his own coffin, but the bank didn’t take integrity as a down payment.
Then, the sound.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It wasn’t the frantic pounding of a victim or the heavy thud of the police. It was slow. Rhythmic. Measured.
Kyle froze. He hadn’t ordered food. He had no friends. His digital footprint was a ghost, and his door was reinforced steel. He looked at the monitor—the DA was gone from the window. The office across the street was now a black square of nothingness.
He crept to the door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He looked through the peephole. The hallway was empty, save for a single, cream-colored envelope resting on the floor.
He cracked the door, grabbed the paper, and retreated. Inside was a single high-gloss photograph. It wasn’t of a mark. It was a photo of him, taken from the DA’s window, sitting exactly where he had been thirty seconds ago.
Underneath his image, a single line was written in elegant, terrifying script: “Smile, Kyle. It’s your turn to pay.”
The doorknob began to turn.
Now it’s your turn…
Does Kyle open the door and face his shadow, or is there a back way out of a twenty-story cage? The shutter is clicking—how does this noir nightmare end?
Discover more from Optimistic Beacon
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
