He had a bottle of Jack, a loaded .38, and a girlfriend who just ratted him out to the feds—but she got to the gun first.
Neon and Lead
The neon sign outside buzzed like a trapped hornet, bleeding a sickly pink hue across Fen O’Leary’s desk. He didn’t blink. His gaze dragged slow and heavy between his two oldest friends: a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and the cold, unfeeling steel of his .38 revolver.
The whiskey burned his throat, but it couldn’t touch the ice in his chest. Megan had ratted. Megan. The girl with the laugh that could stop traffic and eyes that promised forever. She’d walked straight into the Precinct 4 precinct and handed the detectives his life on a silver platter. Every heist, every drop, every dime.
He picked up the revolver. It felt surprisingly light for something carrying so much weight. He loaded a single brass cartridge into the cylinder, spun it, and let it click into place. One chance. One final confrontation. He was building the courage to do what the code demanded. You don’t survive the neon-lit gutters of this city by letting traitors breathe.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Fen didn’t spin around. He just watched the shadow lengthen across his desk, mingling with the pink neon light. The scent of cheap jasmine perfume and rain drifted into the room.
“I knew I’d find you here, Fen,” Megan whispered. Her voice didn’t shake.
He wrapped his fingers around the checkered grip of the gun, his knuckles turning white. The bottle of Jack was empty now. The room was suffocatingly quiet, save for the rhythmic buzzing of the sign outside. He began to turn, raising the barrel.
But as the shadow moved, a metallic click echoed from the darkness behind him.
How does Fen’s final play turn out? Does he pull the trigger first, or did Megan come prepared to silence her mistake? Write the final sentence and finish the noir.