“Put it on the ground and back away.” I had that rat SOB by the throat, now. Stupid bastard had no idea what was coming.

The rain turned to fog as it fell upon the roof, still sun scorched even at this late hour. The spot lamps on the sky skimmers bathed us in so much light we may as well have been invisible—which is why I could point a handgun at his oversized melon in the middle of the city without worrying about some do-gooder calling cops.

“I’m not telling you again. Put it down. Walk away while you still can.”

The big oaf just stood there like a rickety old barn trying to hold its ground against a twister.

The box. Just gimme the goddamned box already.

I take a step forward, and the dumb lug steps back like I pushed him or something. I keep my gun pointed square at his face and take another step forward. He doesn’t say a word, but sure as shit he takes another step back.

Real cute. But this rooftop only goes so far, smartass.

I keep him backing up without letting him circle around, and he ends up in a corner; he’s always been in the corner, he just didn’t know it. “Last chance to walk away. Give me the box.”

I lunged for him. And that motherfucker backed right off the fucking ledge, still holding the box.

He ruined everything.

Notes: I used an image as a writing prompt for this piece. You may be able to find the image on the artist’s ArtStation page. Image by Arnaud Kleindienst, used with permission.

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