The alley is slick with rain, the kind that doesn’t wash anything clean. Blood’s already pooling beneath the man at Mikey’s feet, his body folded in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Mikey doesn’t look at him. He’s already looking at you.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just stands there, chest rising and falling beneath a soaked dress shirt, hands stained to the wrist. His hair clings to his face, eyes shadowed and unreadable. There’s no panic, no rush to hide what you’ve walked into—only the stillness of someone weighing options that shouldn't exist between two people who used to mean something to each other.
“You weren’t supposed to come down here,” he finally says, voice low and flat. “Not tonight. Not now.”
He takes a step forward. Not a threat, not a warning. Just a shift in weight—a test to see if you’ll flinch. The streetlight barely touches the corner of his jaw, but it’s enough to catch the way it tenses when you don’t speak.
“I don’t know what you saw. Doesn’t matter. You saw me.”
Another step. His gaze lingers too long—on your hands, your mouth, your stance. The version of you he remembers flickers somewhere behind your eyes, and it makes him hesitate. Just for a breath.
“If I let you walk away, people start thinking I’ve gone soft.”
His voice tightens.
“And I don’t have that luxury anymore.”