Ernie Potter has the city’s biggest scandal in his viewfinder, but a shadow in the rearview is closing in for the kill.
Writer’s Prompt
The Last Frame
The rain didn’t wash the city clean; it just turned the grit into a slick, black sludge. Ernie Potter sat in the belly of his rusted Toyota, the scent of stale coffee and cheap tobacco his only company. Through the long lens of his Nikon, the world was reduced to a grainy rectangle of high-stakes indiscretion.
Tyler Dexter IV—the city’s golden boy with a platinum pedigree—was draped over a girl who looked like she’d just traded a prom dress for Prada. They lingered under the glow of the Michelin star, a picture-perfect portrait of a scandal worth six figures.
Click. Click. Ernie felt the rush. This wasn’t for a client; this was his retirement fund. One more shot of the hand on the waist, and he’d have enough leverage to bury Dexter or buy a one-way ticket to a beach where nobody knew his name.
Then, the rearview mirror caught a flicker of movement.
A shadow detached itself from the brickwork across the street. A mountain of a man in a tailored overcoat, moving with the heavy, rhythmic gait of a professional wrecker. He wasn’t looking for a taxi. He was looking at the Toyota.
Ernie’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The big man was twenty yards out, his hand dipping into a deep pocket.
Dexter and the girl turned toward the restaurant door. This was the shot. The money shot. If Ernie peeled out now, he had nothing but a blurry silhouette. If he waited three seconds, he had the world by the throat.
The shadow was ten yards away now. Ernie saw the glint of brass knuckles—or maybe a barrel.
What happens when the shutter clicks? Does Ernie get his payday, or does the camera become his headstone? You decide how the roll ends.
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