Neon Ghost

Vinny huddled deeper under the grimy awning of the shuttered hardware store. Rain lashed down, a cold sheet hitting the pavement, exploding into a million tiny splashes. The street was a smear of red and blue and sickly green, the neon from the noodle shop across the alley bleeding into the puddles. He watched it swirl, those garish colors, like some kind of poisoned oil slick. His breath plumed in the cold, tasted like cigarettes and old fear. His hands, shoved deep into his pockets, were clammy even in the chill. God, he hated this rain. Hated the way it muffled sounds, made every shadow seem to stretch and twist.

His gaze kept flicking to the far end of the alley, then back to the watch on his wrist. Ten minutes late. Ten goddamn minutes. Every second felt like a lead weight pressing on his chest. He could still hear it, the pop, flat and sharp like a firecracker, but it wasn't a firecracker. Not then. Not inside that liquor store with the manager staring, eyes wide, before the slump. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Mikey said no one gets hurt. Mikey always said that. Mikey was a liar. Or maybe Mikey just got surprised. Vinny didn't know. All he knew was the manager was down, and the cash register was spilling twenties, and Vinny was running, stomach churning, the heavy bag bumping against his hip.

His jaw ached from clenching it so tight. The water had soaked through his jacket, a cold dampness creeping up his back, making him shiver despite the heat building in his gut. His eyes burned, dry and gritty from lack of sleep. Every shadow was a cop. Every car splash a siren getting closer. He swallowed, a dry rasp in his throat. This wasn't him. He wasn't supposed to be this guy. The one hiding in the rain, hands sticky, breath hitching. He was supposed to be the guy who just drove the car, the one who looked away. But he didn't look away this time. He couldn't.

The red glow from the neon 'OPEN' sign across the street vibrated in a puddle at his feet, making the water look like blood. Or maybe it was just his mind playing tricks. He bent, half-crouching, trying to see his reflection in it, but the light was too distorted, too broken. Just a blur of pale face and wide, panicked eyes. He pushed himself back up, rubbing his hand over his chin, feeling the stubble. The rain didn't let up. It hammered down, endless. He thought about just walking away, disappearing into the city, but where? And with what? That bag felt heavier than gold, but it was dirty gold. Blood money, his old man would say. If his old man was still around to say anything.

A car horn blared nearby, a sharp, sudden sound that made him jump, heart slamming against his ribs. He swore under his breath, pressing himself further into the brick. "Come on, Mikey," he muttered, the words almost lost to the storm. "Where the hell are you?" He pictured Mikey, probably already in some warm apartment, counting his share, laughing. Or maybe Mikey was caught too. That thought, cold and ugly, snaked through him. If Mikey was caught, what then? What about the plan? What about Vinny? There wasn't a plan B. Just... run.

The metallic clang of a dumpster lid from deeper in the alley made him freeze. His head snapped up, straining to hear over the downpour. Nothing. Just the drumming rain, the distant hum of traffic, and the frantic thump of his own pulse. He could smell the stale beer from the bar next door, mixed with the sharp scent of wet asphalt and something else, something metallic. Like fresh blood, maybe. Or just rust from the old fire escape. His stomach rebelled, a wave of nausea washing over him. He pressed his fist against it, trying to calm the storm inside him.

Then, a shadow detached itself from the gloom at the alley's mouth. Not a car. A figure, hunched against the rain, moving fast. Vinny stiffened, every muscle locked. Too tall for Mikey. Too broad. The figure moved into a patch of light from a flickering streetlamp, just for a second, and Vinny saw the glint of metal in his hand. Not a gun, a pipe or something. A heavy, blunt thing. Vinny's breath caught. It wasn't Mikey. It was one of *them*. The ones Mikey had warned him about, the ones who didn't like loose ends.

He backed away slowly, one step, then another, the wet brick cold against his spine. His foot slipped in a puddle, sending a splash of neon-tinged water up his pant leg. The figure stopped, head cocked, listening. Vinny froze, hardly daring to breathe. The glinting pipe. The heavy, measured steps. The silence, broken only by the relentless rain. The man took another step, then another, his eyes, dark pits in the shadowed face, scanning the alley. He knew Vinny was there. He knew.

The choice was stark: stay and face it, or run. He wasn't a fighter. Never was. With a raw yell that was more gasp than shout, Vinny turned and bolted, scrambling over an overflowing dumpster, the heavy bag still banging against his side. The metallic taste of adrenaline filled his mouth. He heard a grunt, a heavy thud, and then the pounding footsteps behind him, closer than he thought. He didn't look back. Just ran. Into the swirling neon chaos, into the endless rain. He didn't know where he was going. Didn't care. Just away.

He could feel the cold, hard slap of the rain on his face, washing away the sweat, mixing with something hot that might have been tears. The city lights blurred into a streak of red and blue, a meaningless, mocking smear in the puddles under his thrashing feet. The footsteps were still there, still gaining. He sucked in a ragged breath, the sound tearing at his chest, and pushed himself harder, a desperate animal running from the hunt. "No," he gasped, the word ripped from his lungs. "Not like this."