As I said

“There’s a buzz tonight. It doesn’t matter, nor do I care,” said the man as he lit a cigarette.

As he smoked, he looked away—out the window of his office—toward the night sky and the city in the distance, where a public celebration was taking place in the central park. The room was dark, and the glow from his cigarette was the only light. His reflection could be seen by the man he was speaking to, who stood at a distance, but he gave it no more importance than what he was observing.

“I know what you mean, boss. There’s nothing more we can do. He’s cornered, there’s no more escape. That’s why he ran to the park. But it’s fine. Everyone’s in position and knows what to do—it’ll be a cat-and-mouse game.”

“Like last time? Don’t make me laugh,” said the man with the cigarette, glancing back briefly.

His subordinated flinched, realizing his mistake, but didn’t apologize. He knew it could make things worse. He also knew there wouldn’t be another chance — and if they failed again, heads would roll for real this time. He clenched his hands together and bit his lips.

At that moment, the phone on the office desk — next to the man who had been staring out the window — started ringing. He picked it up, confirmed some information, gave a few orders, then ended the call.

He took one last, deep drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray beside an almost empty whiskey glass and a half-empty bottle.

Then, heading to the door, he grabbed his coat, turned to the other man, and gave him the order:

“Let’s go. To the park.”

In the car, the subordinated, the driver, was tense and uneasy. He licked his lips, gripped the wheel tight, and drove as fast as he could.

In the back seat, coat open, hat off, the man showed no sign of emotion—The passing streetlights lit up his face now and then, revealing nothing but his keen eyes. He was focused, resolute, lost in whatever filled his mind. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

The car smelled like a cigarette, but that didn’t matter, the driver thought. It had been a long, harsh night since they’d located him—the one who kept slipping away, always a step ahead— stepping on someone’s neck to get there.

Not this time.

That man—the one responsible for ruining everything—was finally going to face what he deserved.

For months, they’d been in this. For months, they had given up their peace, watching, waiting. And he—he could’ve walked away. The luckiest bastard of them all, who had his chance to leave it all behind and live in peace—chose instead to interfere. To betray them. Selling them out, making deals behind their backs.

No more.

After all the losses, this would be the night. Ironically, he wouldn’t lose anything. He would earn what he deserved. More a payment than a payback, we could say.

There, in a parking lot, they were met by a shadowy figure — a man who identified himself as a courier and handed them a package before walking away. Inside the package: a gun and ammunition. She, said the courier, also gave them a message: "Don’t chicken out. Don’t be stupid. Don’t regret anything. There’s no right or wrong — just how to deal with it."

The man in the coat responded, “Go fuck yourself,” grabbing the courier, who didn’t seem to mind.

The ammunition was loaded, the gun tucked into his belt, hidden. “Now we’re ready to go.”

The driver signaled discreetly to a few people as they made their way through the crowd.

Tonight, the city was celebrating its birthday — a place with a history full of everything imaginable: invasions, occupations, civil wars, uprisings, expropriations, land speculation... everything you could think of.

Only after gaining its freedom and being recognized as an autonomous city did it begin to grow and flourish. It still had problems to solve — gangs and organized crime were alive and well — but anyone daring enough could try to live on their own terms. It’s how they were living until someone used his rights to step on their necks.

Located. The man tried to run. His effort was useless—but he didn’t know that yet or was even thinking about it. All he had was the choking weight of failed attempts. Every wing, street, corner, alley, or avenue had been taken. The crew was everywhere—everywhere but one path. He realized it was a trap, but without another option, he took it. Confusion among the crowd would lead to nothing but a silent scream.

He ended up behind a local warehouse. A small storage building—locked, empty, unwatched. Everyone else was at the celebration. Behind it, only a short path and a concrete wall, too high to climb. Cornered, with nowhere left to run, the man waited for fate to find him. And it did—in the form of a hooded figure, a man of few words and no mercy.

He knew the man he had betrayed. There were rumors—whispers about how he’d inherited some property, and that on that property all kinds of business were carried out. The kind that required discretion. But what people didn’t know was that he hadn’t inherited it. He’d taken it. Overnight. And since no one knew who worked there or who owned it, the general public didn’t care. Most still don’t.

What they don’t realize is that the real business is information. Only the most intimate clients are part of the inner circle—and they noticed the shift. The man hiding now had once been a foreman, one of the new ones. He understood exactly what kind of machine he had stepped into. The problem was greed.

He was approached by one of those old clients—a cautious man who wanted to know who was now behind the operation, whether it could still be trusted. And so he paid for that trust. A generous amount.

His story had once been simple. A working man. A father. Trying to find a way to feed his family. But that same virtue—the urge to provide—had chained him to a vice. Betting more than he had. And when the debts came due, even his paycheck couldn’t help. Though technically employed, what he received barely covered the basics—because his previous employer stole from the workers, directly from the timesheets. No explanations. No recourse. And if they pushed back, they were fired—which, for an immigrant, meant certain death in the streets.

He had discovered the old boss’s dirty habits. But he couldn’t do anything about them. Not until this figure appeared—the same one who now stood before him.

And now, just like then, with the same voice and the same question, he drew the gun from under his coat:

“What made you do it? Not going to answer? Thought so.”

A single shot cracked—buried beneath the fireworks overhead. No one noticed.

The man who had been running was now quiet, lost in the last thoughts still flickering through him—whatever was left of them after the bullet. He stared at the figure, now turning away. To his back, a savior. To his face, an executioner.