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The rain fell like judgment , sharp, cold, and relentless.
It had been pouring since sunset, drumming on the rusted gutters and neon-lit asphalt of the alleyways, washing yesterday's blood into the sewers. In a city that no longer cared to name its dead, the sky still wept for them.
He stood beneath the flickering buzz of a dying streetlamp, one hand buried in the pocket of a long, wool overcoat that reeked of cigar smoke and old memories. The other held a cigarette halfway to his lips, forgotten and soggy, the ember long since drowned.
His hat , crimson felt, wide-brimmed , hadn't moved all night. Neither had he.
He watched the building across the street, a three-story dump with paper-thin walls and a single flickering sign: Lucky Boy Karaoke. The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd spent thirty-two years chasing monsters in human skin, and they still liked to crawl in through the same damned door.
From inside came the muffled pulse of bass, laughter, and something else beneath it , something raw. A girl's voice, maybe. Slurred. Desperate.
He exhaled slow, steam rising from his lips like a ghost deciding whether to stay.
This wasn't his case.
He wasn't a cop anymore. Hadn't been for five years. Technically, he wasn't even allowed within five blocks of an active investigation. They'd taken his badge, his pension, his reputation , not because he failed, but because he didn't stop. He went too deep. Cared too much. Knew too much. And because some monsters wore ties and judges' robes.
But here he was.
Fifty-eight years old, lungs like gravel, a heart that skipped like a busted record, and a brain that refused to shut the hell up.
He hadn't planned on dying tonight. But he'd known for a while that he wouldn't get the luxury of retirement.
A scream cracked the silence.
Not the kind people mistake for fun. This one was full of finality. Of disbelief that something so horrible could be real.
He dropped the cigarette.
The coat opened with a practiced swing, and from beneath it came the gleam of something old, something heavy: a nickel-plated revolver, .357 Magnum, ivory grip worn to the bone. He checked the cylinder. Five rounds. Always five. The sixth chamber had been empty since '96 , long story.
Then he stepped into the street, the rain turning his hat to blood-colored velvet, and his boots to thunder.
The door to Lucky Boy Karaoke creaked open with a reluctant groan, like even the building knew what was inside.
He stepped in slow, revolver angled down at a ready tilt. The entryway reeked of bleach, cheap cologne, and something sickly sweet under the surface , the copper tang of spilled blood and the cloying perfume of bodies left in heat too long.
The lobby was empty. No receptionist. Just a sticky floor, a row of cracked vinyl couches, and a vending machine humming like it was trying to stay alive.
He moved left, slow and quiet, boots rolling heel-to-toe. His eyes swept the floor for fresh prints.
One pair , small. Barefoot. Tracked something reddish and smeared.
Another , heavier, staggered, boots. Male. Drunk or pretending to be. A third , lighter, paced, deliberate.
He followed them. Down the hall, past three private karaoke rooms. Each door had a cheap gold plate and a peephole covered with black tape. No sound from inside. Just a low throb of static and the hum of malfunctioning speakers.
He reached the first door.
Raised two fingers.
Checked the hinges.
Cracked it open.
Empty.
Room stank of spilled alcohol and cigarette butts. The mic still dangled from the cord like a noose.
Second room , same process.
This one had red on the walls. Not much. A smear. A message, maybe.
"HELP" , written by hand. Then smeared out.
No body.
He didn't like that.
He pushed deeper into the building. The hallway turned left , then again. Winding like a snake trying to confuse him.
But he wasn't new to this game.
He traced the walls with his left fingertips, a soft tap-tap-tap to keep count of doors. He didn't trust the floor plan , places like this were always rigged. Meant to isolate. Soundproof. Muffle screams.
A thud.
Room five.
Another thud. Wet, rhythmic.
He stopped breathing.
Then he heard it , a girl's voice. Weak. Cracked.
"Please… please stop…"
And a man's laugh. Two men. One high, twitchy. One low and flat.
Then a third voice , calm, deliberate, with that special kind of stillness that only comes from someone who's killed before.
"Don't worry. This is the last one."
He exhaled slow.
Then he moved.
Left shoulder to the door. Raised the revolver. Flexed the fingers on his off-hand.
And with a sharp grunt;
BOOM!
The door cracked off its hinges. Screams erupted.
He entered like a wraith of justice and steel.
The room exploded in chaos.
Three men. One girl. Dim red lights cast the walls in shadows. Soundproof foam soaked the screams.
The girl was barely conscious , bound to a stained karaoke couch, wrists zip-tied, eyes wild with panic. Her brunette hair whipping across her cheeks as she struggled to break free of them.
The first man turned, knife in hand, high-strung and gaunt. The detective didn't hesitate.
BANG!
One round punched through his clavicle, spun him sideways into the wall. Blood misted like cheap cologne.
The second lunged , a heavier one with a hammer, wide-eyed and frothing. The detective stepped in, twisted his hip, and drove a shoulder into his gut. He went down with a crash, wind knocked clean.
The third was already moving , the calm one.
Tall. Clean-cut. Gloves on. No hesitation.
They locked eyes for a moment, and the detective saw it , not fear. Calculation.
A professional.
The man ducked the revolver, grabbed the barrel, and twisted.
The shot went wide.
Then came the knife , small, sharp, concealed in his sleeve.
Pain bloomed in the detective's ribs. Hot. Sudden. Deep.
He grunted, twisted with it, and brought his forehead into the man's nose with a sickening crack.
They both stumbled.
He fired again , the fourth shot.
The clean one dropped. Groaning. Not dead. But not fighting.
The hammer man tried to rise. A boot to the jaw ended that argument.
The room went still.
The detective stood there , chest heaving, revolver smoking, hand clutching his side.
Blood soaked through his shirt.
He looked at the girl. She hadn't moved. Still tied, eyes wide, trembling like a leaf in a storm.
"It's over," he rasped.
She started sobbing. Couldn't stop. The kind of sob that had no breath in it , just decades of fear poured out all at once.
He holstered the gun. Knees shaking now.
He stepped toward her, pulled out his pocketknife, and cut her restraints with fingers slick in blood.
"You're safe," he muttered. "You're safe now."
But he wasn't.
His vision blurred.
The room tilted.
Pain flared like fire in his lungs.
He looked down. The knife wound was deeper than he thought. Arterial. Close to the heart.
The fifth round sat in the chamber. Unfired.
He collapsed to one knee.
"Hey," he said softly, trying to smile. "You're gonna be okay. Just… just go find a cop. One of the good ones. Tell them what happened. Someone will help."
"But you," she sobbed, reaching toward him. "You're bleeding…"
"Yeah," he said, his voice a gravel whisper now. "Guess I finally found a case I couldn't close."
The last thing he saw was her face , crying, but alive.
Then the lights went out.
The world fell away in pieces.
Not all at once. First the pain dulled, then the sound of the girl crying faded, then the weight of the body stopped meaning anything.
He floated , not up, not down. Just somewhere else. Somewhere still.
He turned.
His body lay crumpled near the stained karaoke couch, eyes half-open, blood spreading in a slow halo beneath him. One hand still clenched the revolver. The other hung uselessly by his side.
He stared at his own corpse for a long time.
And for the first time in years… he had no idea what to do.
Is this it?
He thought there would be something , a tunnel, a fire, maybe a hand waiting. But there was just this… hush.
Memories tugged at the edges of his thoughts.
The first case that broke him , the girl with the ribbon. The alley shootout in '03. The three bodies they never found. His wife's voice, saying she couldn't watch him come home like that anymore. The shaking. The smell. The silences.
Fifty-eight years… and what do I have to show for it?
He'd saved people. Caught monsters. Put down men who should've never walked free.
But it was never enough.
He always arrived after the scream. After the blood. After the child had already gone missing.
Too little, too late. Always one body too late.
And yet… even now… the fire inside him hadn't gone out.
A stupid, stubborn thing. Still burning in the ashes.
I just wanted to help. I wanted to matter. I wanted to be the kind of man that stood between the darkness and everyone else.
A real hero. Not a cop. Not a cog. Just a man with a gun and a conscience.
He looked down at the girl again , still there, crying over the body she didn't know had already left.
And in that moment, he wished with everything he had that he could do it again. From the start. Clean slate. Somewhere that needed a man like him , one more time.
That's when the light came.
A single radiant shaft from above, breaking through the static void like a sunbeam through stormclouds.
Warmth flooded him.
He looked up.
And she was there.
Floating in the light like something from a memory he never had , tall, radiant, in a robe made of stars and firelight. Her hair shimmered like the surface of a sunlit river. Her face was calm and grave, but her eyes , her eyes were endless.
She looked directly at him and said:
"Richard Montgomery."
"You are seen."