2025-11-17 07:03:09The city had a cruel rhythm that didn’t stop for pain. Somewhere in the south blocks, under a flickering streetlamp, Diego Flinch learned that lesson with his face pressed against wet concrete, his ribs cracking under a boot.
“Where’s our cut, kid?” growled one of the extortionists—a thick-necked man with yellow teeth and eyes that glittered like broken glass.
Diego spat blood, refusing to speak. His defiance made them laugh, a harsh chorus echoing down the empty alley. They beat him until the laughter turned bored, and then they left, kicking over a trash bin as if to punctuate the insult.
He lay there for a while, tasting iron and dust, watching the orange glow of a distant window where someone else was safe, warm, and far from this kind of night.
When Harold found him, dawn had started to bleed through the clouds.
“Jesus, Diego…” Harold knelt, touching his brother’s bruised jaw. “Who did this?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Diego muttered, half-conscious. “They just… wanted to remind me we don’t own the street.”
Harold’s voice turned cold. “They’ll regret that reminder.”
---
By evening, Diego was sitting upright on the bed in their shack, shirt off, every bruise showing like a map of war. Harold sat opposite him, a small collection of scavenged police radios laid out on the table. The room smelled of cheap antiseptic and sweat.
Diego watched him soldering wires with a scavenged lighter and a rusted knife. “You’re not gonna do something stupid, are you?”
Harold didn’t look up. “Define stupid.”
“Like… start a war.”
“This isn’t a war,” Harold said calmly. “It’s a message.”
Diego smirked despite the pain. “That’s what people say right before a war.”
Harold gave a faint, humorless smile. “Maybe. But they picked this.”
He connected two wires, then held up the radio. Static hissed. He turned a dial until a police channel crackled to life.
“Unit Seven responding… copy that…”
Diego frowned. “You stole that frequency?”
“Borrowed,” Harold corrected. “They’ll never notice, not tonight.”
He began marking the alleyway on a crude map, tracing where the extortionists usually lingered, where they’d run if cornered. Every mark was deliberate.
Diego watched in silence, the weight of his brother’s focus both terrifying and reassuring. “You scare me sometimes,” he said quietly.
Harold looked up, his face unreadable. “Good.”
---
The trap was set by midnight. Rain slicked the streets, turning every surface into a mirror of neon and decay. The brothers waited in an abandoned bakery across from the alley. The smell of damp flour and mold filled the air.
Diego adjusted the radio earpiece Harold had rigged. “You sure they’ll show?”
“They always do after they’ve won,” Harold said. “They like to celebrate.”
Right on cue, laughter echoed through the rain. Three men stumbled into the alley—two carrying bottles, one swinging a chain.
“That’s them,” Diego whispered.
Harold nodded once. “Remember—no noise until the signal.”
Diego smirked. “And what’s the signal?”
“You’ll know.”
He turned on the police radio. A burst of static gave way to a voice. “All units, possible narcotics exchange on 5th and Layton.”
Harold’s eyes glinted. “There’s your signal.”
He pressed the transmitter button twice—click, clicking the sound into the alley through the second radio he’d planted earlier.
The men froze.
“Yo, what the—did you hear that?” one muttered.
“Cops?” another said, peering toward the street.
They started to move, panicked. That’s when Harold and Diego stepped out of the shadows.
“Evening,” Harold said softly.
The men turned. Recognition hit, followed by something colder fear.
“You again?” the thick-necked one spat. “Didn’t learn your lesson, kid?”
Diego’s voice was quiet, measured. “No. But you’re about to.”
The first punch came fast—Diego’s. Then chaos. The rain became a blur of motion and sound. Chains clattered, bottles shattered, fists met flesh. Harold moved like calculation itself, each strike efficient, brutal. He wasn’t fighting for pride. He was fighting to end it.
The big man swung a pipe. Harold ducked, grabbed his wrist, twisted—and the man screamed. The pipe clanged against the wall.
“Stop!” the man yelled. “Okay—enough…”
But Diego wasn’t listening anymore. His rage had found rhythm. He hit until his knuckles split, until Harold pulled him back with the shoulder.
“Diego!” Harold shouted. “That’s enough!”
Diego froze, chest heaving, eyes wild. The man beneath him wasn’t moving.
The rain kept falling, steady, cold.
---
For a long moment, there was only the sound of water dripping from the rooftops. Diego stepped back, staring at the lifeless body. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—”
Harold knelt beside the man, checked for a pulse, and found none. His face stayed calm, too calm.
“He’s gone,” he said quietly.
Diego stumbled back, shaking his head. “No, no, no… we were just— I didn’t want….”
Harold stood slowly, his voice flat. “You wanted to be seen. Now they’ll see you.”
Diego looked at him, tears mixing with rain. “What do we do?”
Harold stared at the alley’s mouth, where the glow of a patrol car flickered faintly in the distance. “We leave him here. They’ll think it was another street killing. No one will care.”
“No one will care,” Diego repeated softly, as if trying to believe it.
Harold picked up the broken radio, wiped it clean, and pocketed it. “This city doesn’t care who dies, Diego. Only who lives long enough to matter.”
---
They returned to the shack in silence. The air inside felt heavier, thick with something unspoken. Diego sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his bloodstained hands.
“Say something,” he murmured.
Harold lit a cigarette he didn’t intend to smoke, the flame briefly lighting his face. “You crossed a line tonight.”
“So did you.”
Harold nodded. “I know.”
Diego looked up, voice trembling. “Do you even care? That man’s dead, Harold.”
Harold exhaled smoke and stared into the dim light. “I care. Just not the same way you do.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means one of us has to stay calm while the other falls apart.”
Diego laughed bitterly. “And which one am I?”
Harold looked at him, eyes softening. “You’re the one who still feels human.”
---
Days passed. The police came and went. No one asked questions; no one mentioned the body. On the streets, however, whispers began to spread. Two brothers had taken down three grown men. One of them died.
By the docks, by the alleys, by the dim-lit bars—people began saying the same thing: Don’t mess with the Flinch boys.
Ramon heard it too. When Harold visited, the old man only shook his head. “First blood, huh? Never goes away, kid. You think you can wash it off, but it stays under your skin.”
Harold said nothing.
Ramon studied him for a long time. “You ain’t even shaking. That’s worse.”
Harold finally spoke. “Shaking doesn’t fix anything.”
Ramon sighed. “Maybe not. But it keeps you human.”
---
That night, back in the shack, Diego couldn’t sleep. He sat by the window, watching the flicker of lightning far off over the ocean. Harold was writing again, his black notebook open.
“What are you writing?” Diego asked quietly.
“Rules,” Harold said.
“About what?”
Harold paused, his pen hovering over the page. “How to survive being who we are.”
Diego leaned back, his voice distant. “Feels like something ended that night.”
Harold didn’t look up. “Maybe something started.”
They sat in silence, two brothers staring into the dark—one haunted by what he’d done, the other haunted by what he’d become.
Outside, the city kept breathing, indifferent and alive, whispering their names under the rain.
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