Two hitmen, two contracts, and one dark room—who walks out alive when the target is yourself?
Writer’s Prompt
The Concrete Kiss
The neon hum of the “Blue Velvet” lounge flickered, casting long, bruised shadows across the vinyl booth. Jack Keegan tasted copper and cheap rye. He’d arrived at 6:00 PM, his heater heavy against his ribs. At 7:00 PM, Bart Sandowsky slid into the opposite side, smelling of rain and menthol.
They weren’t here for a drink. They were the drink—poured out and ready to be swallowed by the city.
“Word on the street is we’re both holding paper,” Bart said, his voice a low grate of gravel. He didn’t reach for his coat, but his fingers twitched near the buttons.
“The client’s a ghost with a sense of humor,” Jack replied, leaning back. “Gave me your name, gave you mine. One deposit, two corpses, and the house keeps the change.”
Outside, the rain turned to a torrential downpour, blurring the world into a smear of grey. They were two sides of a jagged coin. If Jack pulled, Bart would follow; if Bart lunged, Jack would bury him. But the shadows in this city were getting longer, and the men who paid for blood were getting richer off their silence.
“We could walk,” Bart whispered, his eyes darting to the fogged-over window. “Split the advance, vanish into the smog. Or we could find out who’s faster.”
Jack felt the cold steel of his 1911. He looked at Bart—a man he’d known for ten years and hated for twenty. The tension was a piano wire stretched to the breaking point.
Jack’s hand moved. Bart’s shoulder dipped.
The light above them buzzed and died, plunging the booth into total darkness. A single metallic click echoed through the room.
The contract is open. Does the hammer fall, or do they walk out together to hunt the man who set them up? You decide the final move.
