Location: Fenwick District — The Vice — Bathroom — Late Afternoon
The bathroom was a tomb of flickering light.
A single fluorescent tube buzzed above the sink, its glow yellow and weak, casting shadows that jumped and swayed with every flicker. The tiles were cracked, stained, grouted with something that might have been mold and might have been blood. The air smelled of bleach and sweat and the faint, sweet undertow of Haze.
Kevin's two friends stood at the urinals.
The tall one—tattoos, thin face, eyes that had seen too many fights—zipped his pants with one hand and scratched his neck with the other.
"Man," he said.
His voice echoed off the tiles.
"The party today really bummed me out. We were about to score. Had those two girls eating out of our hands."
He shook his head.
"Then that punk showed up. That nosy—"
He paused.
"What do you call him? That wetback? The dishwasher?"
"Pendejo," the stocky one said.
"Yeah. That pendejo. I felt like holding him by the throat. Squeezing until that innocent stupid face of his turned purple."
He turned on the faucet.
Water splashed against the porcelain.
"If it weren't for those dummy Livestreamers with their phones out, I would have done it. Seriously."
"There's still time," the stocky one said.
He shook his hands dry and tucked his shirt in.
"That lousy guy hasn't left yet. Seems like he didn't quite catch our warning."
"Maybe he's too dumb to catch anything."
They laughed.
The sound was flat, hollow, swallowed by the tiles and the flickering light.
---
The door creaked.
Ramon stepped inside.
His face was pale. His eyes were red. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, but something about the way he held his shoulders—stiff, hunched, tense—suggested that his fingers were wrapped around something they shouldn't be.
Kevin's friends turned.
"Well, well," the stocky one said.
"What do we have here? It's the man-baby."
He gestured at the urinals.
"What are you doing here, little fellow? You need to pee?"
The tall one laughed.
"His little brother is probably too small to reach the bowl. Might spray all over the floor."
They laughed again.
Ramon didn't laugh.
His hand came out of his pocket.
The pistol was black, compact, its surface reflecting the flickering light in uneven flashes.
He raised it.
The tall one's eyes widened.
His mouth opened.
No sound came out.
Ramon's finger tightened on the trigger.
---
The first bullet struck the tall one in the forehead.
Not the center—slightly to the left, above the eyebrow. His head snapped back. His body followed. He crashed against the tiles and slid down, leaving a trail of red that glistened in the fluorescent glow.
The stocky one tried to run.
His feet slipped on the wet floor.
His hands reached for the door.
The second bullet caught him in the back of the skull.
He fell forward, his face striking the tiles, his body twitching once, twice, then still.
Ramon lowered the pistol.
His chest heaved. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. His eyes—wide, wet, wild—stared at the bodies.
Then he smiled.
Not a nice smile.
The smile of a man who had just discovered that he was capable of something he had never imagined.
---
The gunfire echoed through the courtyard.
The music stopped. The dancing stopped. The laughter stopped.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then the screaming began.
"GUN!"
"SOMEONE HAS A GUN!"
"RUN!"
Bodies surged toward the exits. Cups flew through the air. Tables overturned. The grill sizzled, abandoned, its meat burning in the sudden stillness.
Kevin stood near the center of the chaos.
His shirt was still unbuttoned. His chest was still sculpted. His face was the face of a man who had just realized that the world was not as safe as he had thought.
"What's happening?" he shouted.
No one answered.
"WHERE ARE MY—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Because he saw the bodies being dragged out of the bathroom.
---
Elijah stood near the grill.
Lucia's hand was still in his. Her eyes were still confused. Her lips were still parted from the kiss.
"It looks like the shy fellow actually had the gall to do it," she said.
Elijah's head tilted.
His eyes—wide, brown, innocent—found the bathroom door.
"Well," he said. "You shouldn't judge a book by its cover."
He released her hand.
His fingers found her chin.
He lifted it—gently, almost playfully.
"Or a man by his trembling."
Lucia's breath caught.
---
Mateo watched from the van.
His hands were still on the steering wheel. His knuckles were still white. His face was still red.
"That son of a—"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
Because Lucia was staring at Elijah with an expression he had never seen on her face before.
And because Elijah was touching her chin.
And because she wasn't pulling away.
Mateo's jaw tightened.
His teeth ground together.
His eyes burned.
"That should have been me," he whispered.
---
Ramon walked out of the bathroom.
The pistol was hidden behind his back, tucked into the waistband of his jeans, covered by the hem of his shirt. His face was calm. His eyes were clear. His steps were steady.
He walked toward Kevin.
Kevin didn't see him.
Because Kevin was too busy looking at the bathroom, at the bodies, at the blood that was beginning to pool on the tiles.
"Hey," Ramon said.
Kevin turned.
His eyes met Ramon's.
"You?"
"Me."
Ramon's hand moved toward his back.
"Where are your friends?"
"I don't—"
"They're dead."
Kevin's face went pale.
"What?"
"I killed them."
Ramon's hand emerged.
But the pistol was not in it.
Because he had already given it away.
---
Elijah stood near the grill.
The pistol was in his hand now—warm, heavy, the grip still wet with Ramon's sweat.
Ramon stood in front of him.
His face was calm. His eyes were clear. His chest was still heaving, but his breathing was steady.
"Well done," Elijah said.
He tucked the pistol into his back pocket.
His voice was still soft. Still high. Still sweet.
"Very well done."
Ramon nodded.
His eyes moved to Lucia.
Then back to Elijah.
"What now?"
"Now," Elijah said, "we leave."
He turned.
Lucia's hand found his.
She didn't know why.
She just knew that she didn't want to let go.
---