The sun was the same.
The gunshot wasn't different.
Even the drugs didn't hit any different.
Dave thought things like that often.
He couldn't quite grasp how Shan had become... a whisper. Sometimes a joke told on dry nights at the bar. It felt like just two weeks ago this wasn't even her block.
At first, Dave relished the new crew, the respect that came with Vincent's backing. It felt good... until it didn't. Until he had to put out some Gen Z wannabe gangster named Peppy. That's when the thrill blurred out.
It felt real when he heard Peppy beg.
They were slicing him knives deep enough to hurt, not to kill. Enough to teach. To remind. Dave watched. He wasn't emotionless. He just didn't understand why Peppy thought begging was gonna change anything.
"Stop fuckin' screaming. You played in the rain. You got wet. Why plead with God?"
That's what Dave said.
He was the head of a crew now. Had to put on the mask. A controlled display of emotion.
Deep down? He wanted to be like Shan. Cold, clean, surgical.
"P...p...please... I-I ain't gon' fuck with Vincent no more, I sw-swear!" Peppy cried, voice broken, leaking life.
Dave stood. Motioned like he was opening a book.
The crew backed off like autopilot.
He crouched beside Peppy.
"Listen. There is no Vincent. He doesn't even know you exist. My job? Keep him from worrying about insects."
Dave hated those words the moment they left his mouth.
"What does that make you?" Peppy jeered. Nothing left to lose. No mask left to hold.
Dave chuckled. "Brave. For a dead man."
And with that grin still mid-bloom, he shot him in the head.
Quick. Clean. Not out of rage out of pity.
"I love drama," he said, speaking to no one in particular, "but that's enough screams for the day."
Truth?
The real reason he pulled the trigger?
He was going home.
To face something worse than Peppy.
Himself.
---
He could've called a girl. Something pretty. Submissive. Let her soak the night. But he was afraid not of her, of what he could do to someone willing to surrender to him right now.
His mind was swarming with bad ideas.
Loud ideas.
Nagging ones.
---
He got home around 8.
Nice apartment. Nice enough for a kingpin, whatever that meant.
The clock stared at him, judging.
Telling him it was going to be a long night and a short day.
He tried to sleep. Hoped someone out there did something stupid enough to get him a call from the crew. Something to distract the noise.
---
10:05 PM.
It started.
The bed felt like tile.
The cars outside turned into Vincent's voice, into gunshots, into old memories he couldn't file away.
He didn't feel guilt. He felt hate.
Hate because when it mattered most, he couldn't choose.
He was used.
A tool. Just another piece of metal aimed by someone else.
Dave wanted to own the tool.
Wield it.
Shape it.
He'd been having dreams like that for a while.
And like all of us, he did what we do best:
Nothing.
Even when we know.
Because the uncomfortable...
Is sometimes more comfortable than the comfortable.
"Enough," Dave said aloud.
Vincent's death...
That was the formula.
For peace.
For control.
For silence.
It was so soothing a plan, he finally fell asleep.
---
5:00 AM.
He woke up sharp. Didn't matter.
He'd slept without feeling like a piece of shit. That was new.
Then Vincent's words echoed like a ghost pressing its fingers into his skull:
> "Don't get ideas."
Wanna know a secret?
Threats are promises, just laced with anger, hate, and violence.
---
Vincent had to die.
Simple.
But he couldn't trust the crew. Not for something like this.
He was in a crew once.
Only one walked out of that.
He grabbed Vincent's burner. Let it ring.
Let it test his nerves.
"Vin, hey. Something's off on the block. Can I come over? Discuss a bit of business shuffle?"
One percent of his soul hoped Vincent said no.
"You know what? I'm around town. Come across to the Canny Tea. I'll be having lunch."
Final.
And he hung up.
Even better.
A public place.
No army.
Just Vincent.
And Dave.
---
He paced, grabbing his phone.
"Psst. Dezzy. Get me the number of whoever's serving at Canny Tea. And tell the crew to tool up."
"Ehm… everything okay, boss?" Dezzy chuckled nervously.
"The whole crew?"
Dave turned slow. Leaned in. The fake anger in his voice was flawless.
"I didn't ask for questions. Did I?"
"Tell the whole fuckin' crew to tool up and get me the damn name."
Dezzy scattered.
Dave chuckled to himself.
He had his own Ben now.
A yes-man with fear stitched into his spine.
Why pick Dezzy for this?
Because Dezzy is always afraid.
Of doing something wrong.
Of saying something wrong.
Of dying wrong.
You'll be surprised by the power you wield...
When you are feared.
You become God.
Because no one wants to fuck with God.
Me?
Him?
Vincent's fear doesn't touch Dave anymore.
It's time to kill God.