One man has six bullets and nothing left to lose. But the billionaire he’s hunting is already waiting for him.
Writer’s Prompt
The rain in this city doesn’t wash anything away; it just moves the grime from one alley to the next. Rock Bensen stood in the shadows of the Oakwood Country Club, his knuckles white against the cold steel of the .38 Special.
Seven days. That’s how long the insomnia had been carving hollows into his cheeks. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the ticker tape of his life unspooling into a gutter. Joel Wingstein hadn’t just stolen his savings; he’d stolen the floor beneath Rock’s feet, leaving him hanging by a thread over a massive mortgage and a shattered ego.
A sleek, midnight-blue limousine pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and there he was—Wingstein. He looked soft, draped in cashmere that cost more than Rock’s house, his face glowing with the smug radiance of a man who had never skipped a meal or a heartbeat. He stepped out, laughing at something his driver said, a sound like dry leaves skittering on a grave.
Rock’s thumb found the hammer of the revolver. Click. The sound was lost in a thunderclap. He stepped out of the darkness, his finger tightening on the trigger. He could see the individual stitches on Wingstein’s lapel. He could see the moment the billionaire’s eyes met his—not with fear, but with a strange, weary recognition.
“I’ve been expecting you, Rock,” Wingstein whispered, reaching slowly into his own breast pocket.
Rock froze. Was it a checkbook or a glock? Was this a trap, or a final peace offering? The barrel was aimed true, but the billionaire’s hand was already moving.
How does the story end?
Now it’s your turn. Does Rock pull the trigger and cement his ruin, or does Wingstein reveal a secret that changes everything? Finish the scene in the comments or your next draft.
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