I'm tired. Maybe it's anger too but not the loud kind. Just this slow, grinding pressure that never really goes away.
I sit there, not because I want to, but because I don't know what else to do. People think that means I'm okay. I'm not. I'm just… done. There's a handgun on the table next to me, a few bullets scattered like loose change. The mag is half-full, sitting right next to.
Some would say this was all staged. Hell, maybe it is. Feels like a script someone else wrote. I stare at the messy wall across from me. I tapped the projector, couldn't help it. The girl flickered to life on the wall. Her smile blooms for half a second before the feed degrades.
That smile...
There is a thin line between being the saint and the devil. You cross the line once. Then you forget there ever was one. Next to the gun, there's a glass of gin, and an empty bottle.
I can't be too poetic about my life. That never helped. People say living is what matters most, but they're wrong. It's not. I've learned very early on, that the only thing that really moves this world is money. Soon enough, anyone would learn it. Truth is, most lives don't look that different from mine, just cleaner from the outside.
The girl in the image laughs, spins, then laughs again, carefree in a way that doesn't exist anymore. I stitched that moment together from old memory threads, kept it clean, . Just so I could see her like that again, even if it hurts.
Every time life knocked me down, it made sure to kick me in the ribs while I was down there. Maybe that's just how I remember it but the bruises feel real enough. And somehow, I keep paying. One way or another.
When someone says they didn't deserve what happened to them, I just think, why? Why not? It's your life. You played it the way you played it, and it slaps back. That's not fate. That's the bill coming due.
I looked at the gun. One bullet is enough to end everything.I used to flip through crime files like old diaries because I could swear some could be about me. They're not, of course. But the echo is close enough to feel familiar.
A knock at the door.
Answer it or not? Maybe if I count to five, they'll just go away.
Another knock, more urgent. Then the rattle of the handle. Someone tries to walk in, but the door's locked.
"Mr. Bale, it's me."
Of course it is. Who the fuck else would it be?
"Alberto Regiano. May I come in?"
I sit back on the couch and stare. I didn't pay rent for this week, figured I wouldn't need to. The motel owner knocks again. Eventually, Silvio gives up. I hear Silvio's footsteps retreat, slower than they should be.
In front of me, the file sits open. I memorized it years ago, it's one of the old crime cases that still haunts me. No matter how many times I read it, it doesn't get any easier.
Four victims, four women. Different lives, different corners of the city. But all of them laid out the same way on their backs, hands folded under their heads, legs crossed in a lotus position.
One worked retail at the mall. Another was a corporate officer. The third, a retired soldier. And the last... was someone close to me. How did they die? That detail barely made the front page. If it weren't for the corporate officer's body turning up near an exec compound, I doubt anyone would have cared at all back then.
That's just how it works. Money, darlings. Money commands attention. The lack of it only generates emotional interest, grief from family, shock from a friend, a candlelit vigil at best. But if those people don't have influence or wealth? They can cry all they want. The world won't blink.
Just because I'm here, and you're there. Whoever you are, whatever you do. You might say years in the force turned me into a madman… No. Not really.
The corporate officer's name was Mia Novak. She worked at A-Res Corp, a renewable energy consultancy. Not flashy, just one of those companies that helped build solar farms on the city's edge. Mia was a project manager. She coordinated contractors, scheduled deliveries and dealt with bureaucrats.
What linked Mia to Cassandra, another victim. Different backgrounds, yet their paths converged. Cassandra was a retired soldier. Lived off her pension and volunteered at the VFW hall. Or Yoanna Crust, a part-timer at the mall, who lived paycheck to paycheck selling overpriced shoes.
Or Marlene, my wife.
Different lives. Different pasts…
Footsteps again. This time, no knock. Just the slide of a key in the lock.
I fished out the cigarette, sparked it up, and let the smoke curl deep into my lungs. The door opened as the bulk of a man filled the frame.
Martinez. Yeah, I knew that fella. Hands on Silvio's hips, broad chest puffed out, sunglasses still on like a damn fool, even in a room this dim. He looked around like Silvio owned the place.
Behind Silvio crept someone older.
He didn't say much. Just walked in and lowered himself next to me on the couch, groaning a little at the knees.
He didn't look at me. His eyes were fixed on the girl's image flickering on the wall. Then, without shifting Silvio's gaze, Silvio said, "Charming place. A police officer getting drunk in a motel like this, out on the edge of the city."
I didn't look at Silvio. Just exhaled and said, "I'm not one anymore and not exactly the best candidate for a talk. "
He eyed the open file, Silvio's cybernetic optic catching the dim light, casting a faint yellow sheen across the page. The lens whirred quietly, scanning.
"I'm tired," I muttered. "I booked this room to clear my head." We both looked at the smiling girl flickering on the wall. Silvio let out a slow sigh.
He knew I was lying.
I turned slightly toward Silvio. "Why'd you come here yourself? Doesn't seem like your style. Could've sent one of your ghosts." I stared at the girl again, her smile frozen in that half-second of joy. "Or bought a ticket to the moon like the rest of your dusty friends and vanished already."
"Bale," Silvio said, and for once, there was something frayed in Silvio's voice. "I'm not here to chat." He paused, glanced at the file, then looked away. "I need you to check the shipment. Tomorrow morning. Coming in from the Red Zones."
I didn't say anything.
He exhaled. "It's people," Silvio said, barely above a whisper. "Let's just say... they weren't meant to come back."
I drew from the cigarette, letting the smoke settle deep in my lungs. Then I reached over and killed the projection, her smile vanished from the wall like it'd never been there. I stood up, joints cracking, and walked to the window.
"You wouldn't have come here personally unless something went wrong."
A pause.
"Whatever went sideways, you need someone who knows how to make it disappear."
I turned from the window, watching Silvio. "Let me guess, you sent people in already. And now they're all still there, aren't they?"
Martinez didn't flinch, but the tightness in Silvio's jaw gave it away. I glanced at Silvio. "You two are in a hurry. That's what this is really about."
Silvio didn't deny it. Didn't have to.
Rain tapped slowly against the window.
He was still staring at the empty wall where the girl had smiled just minutes ago. Martinez stood nearby, arms crossed, sizing me up like Silvio was waiting for a reason.
Old man didn't say anything for a while. Just breathed. "I'm counting on you."
I stepped toward the table, reaching for the glass of gin, but Silvio got there first. He slid it out of reach with two fingers. "I need you sober enough," Silvio said, not quite meeting my eyes.
"They weren't just randoms, were they? That's why you brought this one to me."
Silvio stood up slowly, then reached into Silvio's coat and pulled out a data shard. He set it on the table without a word. "Everything you need is on it."
Silvio's gaze drifted to the gun on the table. He didn't touch it. Just stared for a second too long.
"You could've ended it before," Silvio said quietly. "But now it's too late."
I didn't move. Just said, "I know."
His eyes slid to the file.
"You know who did it, Bale," Silvio said.
I picked up the glass from Silvio's hand dropping a cigarette inside, watched it drown, then took a bitter swig.
"I did," I said quietly. "And I didn't miss."
Silvio's eyes stayed on me .Silence hung.
"No," Silvio said. "You're just the fool who kept breathing afterward."