It was 2 am in the streets of Boston, and the city's neon veins pulsed through rain-slicked asphalt like electric blood. Anthony Carmichael's lungs burned as he pumped his legs harder than he had in fifteen years, his worn sneakers sliding on a patch of oil and rainwater. Please, please just let me get away, he gasped, his breath forming white clouds in the frigid February air. I can't do this anymore—I'm not built for running, not built for hiding. Why did I ever think I could outsmart them?
The footsteps behind him were heavy, deliberate—men who moved with the confidence of predators who knew their prey was cornered. The Blood Wolves didn't just chase debts; they hunted them, and Anthony had become their latest quarry. They said they'd give me more time. They said one more win at the tables would cover it all. Liars. All of them are liars, including me.
He darted down a narrow alleyway reeking of spoiled produce and industrial cleaner, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard he thought it might burst through his skin. At the far end, a large green dumpster loomed like a grim sanctuary. Without hesitation, he hauled himself up its slick metal side and tumbled inside, burying his body beneath a mountain of black garbage bags, discarded cardboard, and the acrid stench of decay.
This is it, he thought, pulling a soggy newspaper over his face to muffle his breathing. A grown man hiding in trash like a stray dog. Mom always said I'd end up in a gutter somewhere, but she thought it'd be from drinking, not gambling. Dad tried to teach me how to fix cars—said hard work was the only thing that never let you down. I laughed at him. Laughed at the idea of getting my hands dirty when I could make a fortune with just a roll of the dice.
The alley fell silent save for the distant wail of a siren and the drip of rain from fire escapes. For a moment, Anthony dared to hope—maybe they passed me by. Maybe they'll think I ran the other way. I'll get out of here, find a bus station, start over somewhere no one knows my name. Detroit? Chicago? Maybe even Canada.
Then came the sound: a sharp clink-clink-clink of iron against concrete, echoing through the narrow space like the toll of a death bell. Anthony froze, every muscle in his body locking up as cold sweat trickled down his spine despite the chill. No. No, no, no. That's a crowbar. They're going to tear this place apart piece by piece.
His hands shook as he pressed them together, fingers interlaced so tightly his knuckles turned white. He'd never been a religious man—not since he was a kid forced to sit through Sunday mass while his mind wandered to the racetrack results printed in his pocket. But now, in the darkness of that dumpster, he prayed to anyone who might be listening.
I don't know if you're real, he whispered inside his head, his teeth chattering with fear and cold. I don't know if you care about a mess like me. But if you're out there—if there's any good left in this world—please let me live. I swear I'll change. I'll find a job, I'll call my sister, I'll go to rehab for this addiction that's eaten me alive. I'll make amends. Just… just give me one more chance.
A shadow fell over the dumpster opening, and a voice rumbled up from the alley below—deep, gravelly, and laced with a cruelty that made Anthony's blood run cold.
"Hey, Carmichael. We know you're in here. Don't make us waste another minute. Come out and pay your debts now… don't make this stay any longer than it has to."
It was Damien—leader of the Blood Wolves, a man whose reputation for violence preceded him like a plague. Anthony clamped his hand over his mouth to stifle a whimper, his body trembling so violently he was sure the garbage around him would shift and give him away.
Stay quiet, he commanded himself. Just stay quiet. They'll leave. They have to leave.
But patience had never been Damien's strong suit. Anthony heard the scrape of boots on the dumpster's side, followed by Damien's voice again. "Hector! Marcus! Sweep this alley from end to end. Find every dark corner, every pile of trash. I want that rat found."
Seconds later, a shout cut through the air. "Got him! Right here in the dumpster!" Hector's gruff voice was followed by the sound of garbage bags being torn apart. Strong hands wrapped around Anthony's arms, hauling him out and dropping him onto the wet concrete like a sack of rotting fruit.
Damien stepped into the dim glow cast by a flickering streetlight at the alley's mouth, his massive frame silhouetted against the orange haze. He let out a low, frightening chuckle that sent shivers down Anthony's spine. "You thought you were going to escape us?" he growled, his face twisting into a snarl as he stepped closer. "You thought you could run from what you owe? Stupid, pathetic man."
Marcus—lean, sharp-eyed, and always the enforcer—stepped forward with a black handgun in his hand. The metal gleamed wetly in the rain as he pulled back the hammer with a sharp click that echoed through the alley. Anthony's eyes fixed on the barrel as it rose to level with his forehead.
"Shoot him three times in the head," Damien ordered, his voice flat and final. "One for every thousand he owes us. Make sure he doesn't get up again."
Hector pinned Anthony's shoulders to the ground, his weight crushing the air from his lungs. As Marcus's finger hovered over the trigger, Anthony's mind flooded with every mistake, every bad choice that had led him to this moment.
It started so small, he thought, tears mixing with rain on his cheeks. A friendly poker game with coworkers. Fifty dollars here, a hundred there. I told myself I was just having fun, that I knew when to stop. But I never did. When I lost my job at the factory—I blamed the layoffs, but the truth is they'd caught me running numbers on company time—I dived deeper to make up for it. Sold Mom's engagement ring. Took out loans I could never repay. Stopped answering my sister's calls because I couldn't bear to tell her what I'd become. Sarah has three kids now—they probably don't even remember their uncle. I missed her wedding, missed every birthday, all because I couldn't walk away from a deck of cards or a roulette wheel.
He thought of his father's calloused hands, showing him how to adjust a carburetor. Of his mother's warm apple pie, waiting for him after long days at school. Of Sarah's graduation day, when she'd held up her diploma and searched the crowd for his face—only to find an empty seat.
I wasted my life, he realized, closing his eyes as the cold barrel pressed against his skin. I threw away everything that mattered for nothing. If I could go back… if I could just go back to that first game, turn around and walk away…
The first shot rang out like thunder, followed by two more in quick succession. The impact jolted through Anthony's skull, and for a moment, there was nothing but darkness and silence.
Hector and Marcus lifted his limp body and tossed it back into the dumpster, shoveling garbage over him until he was completely hidden from view. They wiped their hands on their jackets, exchanged a few quiet words with Damien, and then disappeared into the rain-soaked streets, leaving nothing behind but the smell of gunpowder and decay.
Moments after they were gone, the sky above Boston split open. A jagged bolt of lightning struck the alley with impossible precision, hitting the metal dumpster directly. The electrical charge arced through the garbage, crackling with an otherworldly blue light that seemed to seep into Anthony's still form. Thunder roared so loudly it shook the buildings on either side, and a downpour unlike any the city had seen in decades began to fall, washing away the blood from the concrete and turning the alley into a rushing river of rainwater.