Neon Bleed

The rain had been falling for hours, a cold, relentless assault on the city. It hammered the awnings of the boarded-up storefronts, hissed against the hot asphalt, and collected in murky puddles that swallowed the garish glow of the neon signs overhead. Leo shivered, pulling the collar of his worn jacket tighter against the wet chill. His breath plumed in the damp air, a visible sign of the tremor that ran through him. He was standing in the shadows of the old laundromat, its perpetually flickering ‘OPEN’ sign casting a sickly green light onto the slick pavement, blurring into the purple of the liquor store across the street. Every reflection in every puddle was a distorted, liquid smear of color, like the city itself was bleeding.

His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, knuckles white against the damp fabric. One hand gripped the cold steel of the .38 he’d 'borrowed' from his uncle’s sock drawer. It felt heavy, alien. He wasn't a gun guy. He was a guy who folded shirts at the dry cleaner, who owed the wrong people money, who’d made one too many bad decisions. Now, he was here, waiting. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs, a frantic snare drum in the quiet hum of the rain. The silence between the drops was worse than the noise, an empty space where something bad could just… emerge.

The agreed-upon time had passed. Fifteen minutes. Then twenty. Every passing car felt like a spotlight, every distant siren an arrow pointing directly at him. He scanned the street, eyes darting from the greasy glow of a late-night diner to the darkened alleyways. The puddles mirrored his anxious gaze, reflecting the broken shards of his own face in their watery depths. He was supposed to be delivering a package, a small, discreet thing wrapped in black tape. Something about numbers, about a drop. He didn't ask questions. He couldn't afford to.

A beat-up sedan, dark and indistinct in the rain, glided to the curb across the street, its headlights cutting through the shimmering curtain of water. Leo's gut clenched. Too slow. Too quiet. It wasn't the car he'd been told to expect. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, despite the cold. His finger brushed the trigger guard of the .38, a raw, instinctual reaction. The car sat there, engine idling, for what felt like an eternity. Then, a figure detached itself from the passenger side, moving with a fluid ease that didn't belong on these wet, grimy streets. It was a woman, tall, with something glinting in her hand.

Not the contact. Definitely not the contact. She moved with purpose, not like someone waiting for a handover. Leo’s mind raced. Double-cross. It had to be. He ducked deeper into the shadows, pressing his back against the brick wall of the laundromat. The cold seeped through his jacket, but he barely noticed. His breath hitched in his throat. He watched her approach, her silhouette framed by the pulsating neon signs. The glint in her hand resolved into a blade, long and wicked. No, this wasn't a delivery. This was a cleanup.

He had two choices: run, or fight. Running meant leaving the package, leaving his debt unpaid, leaving himself exposed to whatever these people would do. Fighting… fighting meant using the gun. He’d never even fired one outside of a video game. But the cold logic of the street hit him with the force of a physical blow. He was cornered. He wasn’t leaving without that package, not with his sister’s medical bills looming, not with the memory of his uncle’s desperate plea. He watched her step into a particularly large puddle, the neon green light from the laundromat sign splashing around her ankles, making the water shimmer like sickly alien blood.

She stopped, her head cocked, as if she could smell him. Her eyes, even from this distance, seemed to bore into the shadows. He could feel her gaze, a prickling sensation on his skin. This wasn't just some street thug; this was someone who knew what they were doing. He gripped the .38, his knuckles aching, and tried to remember everything his uncle had ever mumbled about self-defense. Breathe. Aim. Squeeze. But his hands were shaking so hard the gun felt alive, vibrating with his own terror. He closed his eyes for a split second, picturing his sister's pale face, the tubes, the monitors. This was for her. It had to be.

He burst from the shadows, not with a shout, but with a guttural gasp, the .38 coming up clumsily. The woman didn’t even flinch. She moved with shocking speed, the blade arcing through the air. Leo fired. The sound was deafening, a sharp, explosive crack that ripped through the quiet rain, echoing off the wet brick. A flash of muzzle fire illuminated her face for a brutal instant: eyes wide, a flicker of surprise, then something else. He didn't wait to see what. He just ran, splashing through the puddles, the neon lights blurring into a smeared, frantic rainbow behind him. The scent of ozone and something coppery clung to the air. He didn't look back. He couldn't.

He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs screamed, until the weight of the gun felt like a hundred pounds in his hand. He ran through alleyways thick with the smell of refuse and stale beer, under the sickly yellow glow of streetlights, past the occasional startled homeless man huddled in a doorway. The rain still fell, washing over him, washing over everything. He didn't know if he'd hit her, if she was down, if someone else was coming. All he knew was the cold, wet fear in his gut, and the feel of the package still clutched tight in his left hand, an anchor pulling him deeper into a life he never wanted. The city kept bleeding neon, the puddles kept reflecting it all, and he kept running, no idea where to go next, just away from the echoes of that single shot.