Puddle Light

The rain didn’t let up. It just kept coming, a cold, relentless sheet sluicing down the dirty brick, overflowing the gutters, turning every crack in the pavement into a shallow river. Leo hunched deeper into his worn leather jacket, the collar pulled tight around his ears, doing nothing to stop the chill that had settled deep in his bones. The corner dive bar, ‘The Rusty Nail,’ glowed in the distance, its garish red and blue sign smeared across the slick asphalt, a pulsing wound of light. Each reflection in the puddles seemed to wobble, distort, just like everything else in his life.

He checked his watch again. Ten past eleven. Butcher was never late. Never. That thought alone tightened the knot in his stomach, a cold, hard stone rolling around with every shallow breath. The bag in his hand felt heavier than it had any right to be, even though it was mostly air and a few thin plastic bundles. What was inside felt like his last good chance, his one shot at clawing his way out of the pit he'd dug. His hands, even through the thin gloves, were slick with sweat. Or maybe it was just the rain, seeping in.

A lone headlight cut through the mist, slow and deliberate. Not a cab. Not a regular car. The way it moved, quiet, powerful, sent a fresh wave of ice through his veins. It pulled up to the curb, a dark sedan, windows tinted so black you couldn’t see a damn thing inside. No hurry. Just idling, engine a low purr against the drumming rain. The front passenger window hummed down a bare inch, then stopped. A plume of cigarette smoke ghosted out, quickly shredded by the wind.

Leo walked towards it, his boots crunching on something gritty on the sidewalk, unable to make out what it was. He kept his eyes on that sliver of window, tried to see a face, an outline, anything. Nothing. Just the dark. He stopped a few feet away, rain dripping off the brim of his cap. "Butcher?" His voice was a raw croak, barely audible over the rain.

The back door opened, slow. No one. Just the empty seat. A flicker of doubt, cold and sharp, went through him. This wasn't how they usually did things. He looked around. Empty street. Not a soul. Just him, the car, and the broken, shimmering reflections of neon in the oily puddles. He swallowed hard. The bag felt like a dead weight now. He stepped closer, peering into the back. Still empty. Then, from the passenger side, a figure emerged. Not Butcher. A different guy. Broad shoulders, a face like chiseled granite, eyes that didn't miss a thing. A ghost of a smile, thin and humorless, touched his lips.

"He's not here," the man said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. "He sent me. Said you got something for him." His eyes flicked to the bag in Leo's hand. Leo's heart hammered against his ribs. This wasn't the deal. This wasn't right. Butcher always did his own pickups, his own collections. Always. A bad taste rose in Leo’s mouth, metallic and bitter.

"Where is he?" Leo demanded, the words catching in his throat. His gaze darted to the tinted windows, scanning for movement. He could feel eyes on him. Many eyes. This was a trap. Had to be. The granite-faced man just shrugged, a casual movement that spoke of immense power. "He's busy. Hand it over. The package. Then we're done."

Leo’s mind raced. He could run. But where? And they’d find him. They always did. The consequences of not delivering Butcher’s package were… terminal. But this felt different. Too different. This wasn't a pickup, this was a setup. He felt a bead of cold sweat run down his temple, mixing with the rain. He clutched the bag tighter, his knuckles white. The neon from The Rusty Nail bled across the street, painting the scene in garish, artificial light, making the puddles look like pools of blood.

"The deal was with Butcher," Leo said, trying to keep his voice steady, failing. "I'm not giving it to you." The man's smile vanished. His eyes hardened, cold and predatory. "You think you got a choice, pal?" From the shadows of the alley beside the bar, two more figures emerged, silent, rain dripping off their dark coats. They moved like sharks in shallow water, closing the distance, their hands tucked into their pockets. Leo saw the glint of steel in one of their fists, even through the downpour.

He knew what was happening. This wasn't about the package anymore. This was about making an example. He was just a loose end, a desperate man caught in the wrong tide. His hand, shaking, reached inside his jacket, not for a gun, but for the small, heavy object he'd sewn into the lining, a last resort. The granite-faced man saw the movement, a flicker of something in his eyes. "Don't," he warned, a low growl. But Leo was already committed. He pulled it out, not a weapon, but a small, heavy brick of gold, a distraction. He hurled it at the man’s face, a desperate, gut-wrenching heave.

It caught the man off guard, a grunt escaping him as he stumbled back, blood blooming on his cheek. Leo didn't wait. He turned and ran, legs pumping, the bag still clutched in his hand. He didn't look back. The shouts, the sudden roar of the car engine, the splash of his boots in the freezing puddles, the distorted, mocking neon lights chasing him through the rain-soaked streets. He just ran.