Nate's POV

I'd always appreciated beautiful things. But with beauty, there always came a price. My father gave me large enough of a commission that I could afford to live in a modest type of luxury, a quiet yet opulently decorated flat on the seventh floor of building C in the South Park community. Although slightly pricier due to the windows' panoramic view over the sea, such sunsets were always worth the extra cash.

I was lying on my back in the window seat, cushioned by a thick mattress topper. I stretched myself out, turning my head to the right, staring aimlessly out the window. Declan had gotten me some good buds the last time we met and I'd just rolled a joint, puffing it idly. Biscuit had laid his head on my stomach some time ago, nuzzling my shirt with his warm nose. Giving in, I started stroking his head, but he had long since run away whining, turning his nose away at the smell of cannabis. I couldn't blame him. No one really smoked pot for the smell of it.

Closing my eyes, I could see Gage sitting across from me, his back against the wall, legs drawn up and eyes staring longingly through the windows, wishing himself far away. I never smoke around him; he'd always been your ideal athlete, who frowned upon smokers and drinkers and woke up at the crack of dawn every morning.

"You should try waking up to the sunrise. It's much less depressing," I gave him a funny look. Sunsets were more quiet than sunrises, but depressing isn't exactly the word I'd use.

"Do explain how exactly sunsets are depressing, Gage," he furrowed his brows, and seemed lost in thought, as if he was trying to find the right words.

"If you think about it, it's a metaphorical death. It feels like a defeat, in a way. The sun sets, and the light and warmth goes with it. It leaves us cold and empty, don't you think?" He held an empty bottle of beer in one hand, turning it over idly as he talked. He faced me then, his eyes bright in the sunlight and full of unguarded curiosity. He was beautiful; and most definitely drunk.

"You know the sun doesn't really go anyway don't you? It's the earth's-" he cut me off with a glare, "I might not have your brains, but I'm not that stupid,"

I gave him an unimpressed look, and he rolled his eyes, punching my shoulder lightly "C'moon, you know what I meant," he sounded genuinely upset and a tad bit whiny for being made fun of, and I chuckled.

"I suppose there's more than one way to look at it. I think it's more of a release from the inevitable end, rather than a defeat. It's an acceptance that even the last ray of sunlight is sniffed out at the end, and there isn't anything we can do about it," I took a deep breath, "We cling to life in such a desperate way, but we seem to forget we can't outrun death. It's exhilarating in its own way," I shrugged, and looked him dead in the eye. "Besides, where I'm from, there's no sun,"

He lit up just then, dropping his head backwards against the wall and laughing so loud I could hear him over the subwoofer's pounding. "You didn't just quote twenty-one pilots on me, did you"

I winked and sank back into the cushions.

He nodded absently, putting the beer bottle down, "What goes around comes around I suppose," he shrugged, "Like that snake that eats its on tail. Now that would be a dope tattoo idea," he wriggled his eyebrows suggestively at me, and I tried not to laugh.

I'd been thinking of getting a tattoo for a while, and he'd been trying to come up with suggestions. He'd been failing miserably, until now.

"An ouroboros you mean. And yes. Yes it would,"

I absently traced the ouroboros tattoo on my wrist. I'd gotten it done two days after Gage and I had that conversation, and I couldn't bring myself to regret it. 

It had been a sunny autumn afternoon just like this one, but this time there was no one to frown upon the joints I kept rolling, or the whiskey that I swished half-heartedly in my glass. This wasn't something alcohol could fix anyway.

I felt the music pound right beneath my ribcage, a rhythmic thump that I welcomed openly, since Gage wasn't around to turn the volume down anymore.

10 years. I have known this man for half my life, and I never thought he was capable of the sheer hatred I saw flash in his eyes, even if just for a millisecond. I could recall it as clearly as if he were standing in front of me, and despite the sunlight warming my face, I turned cold. I let the image wash over me, over and over, watching him shuffle away in fear and disgust, letting that melt away any doubt I still had. There was no going back, even if I wanted to.

Yet I missed him more than I thought I would. I'd miss the lazy evenings filled with banter and alcohol-free beer, the early nights and even his constant fretting and complete disregard of tidiness. The flat felt too neat, too orderly without him around.

And I felt too empty.

There were no more bottles littering the kitchen table, no more romance novels scattered on the floor or football strategies drawn on random papers or napkins and abandoned in the most random of places.

I kept staring at the neat pile of law books on the table, and as if in a wild daze I strode across the room and swept them clean off the table, watching them scatter on the floor as I sat heavily down on the cold floorboard. Anger was something I could deal with. But it wasn't anger I was feeling, not really.

At the sudden movement, Biscuit ran over, barking and looking around for what could've caused the commotion. I ignored him, carding both hands through my hair and pulling it harshly, eyes closed, and heard myself give a low chuckle. Slowly, my composure dissolved in a loud, convulsive laughter that could've been mistaken for sobbing if it weren't for the bittersweet smile frozen on my lips. A few frustrated tears slipped free while my laughter turned choking and painful, and I started wondering whether I really was crying after all.

Biscuit gave a low whine, looking skittish and above all confused. I tried to catch my breath and threw a hand in his direction, but the movement was too sudden and he took a few steps back, barking confusedly at me and tilting his head sideways questioningly. "I don't know buddy. I really don't know what's wrong with me," I let out another wet chuckle, staring blankly ahead.

The playlist came to an end with a bang similar to a judge's gavel, and the flat turned eerily silent except for my wheezing and Biscuit's whining. I bit my lip until it bled all the way down my chin and stained my blue t-shirt, my nails making crescent moons in the soft flesh of my palm in an attempt to distract myself from the other pain I couldn't pinpoint.

It was similar to the pain I'd felt when mom didn't come back after her day shift on a Thursday evening, the same one I'd felt the first time my father had come to my room when mom was asleep, holding my down and shushing me while he got his way.

But this time, it felt like something was very, very wrong. I felt removed from my own body, conflicted and so very lost. Distantly, I wondered if this was what people called heartbreak.

My phone rang, obnoxiously loud and for a moment I was tempted to just let it ring. But then I remembered who must be calling, and I reluctantly fished it out of my pocket, answering half-heartedly.

"Nathaniel! What's the matter with you lately? Do I have to remind you what happens if you don't come through?" his voice was light and airy, as if he were talking from a public place and he didn't want to attract any unnecessary attention, but I could hear the thinly veiled threat as clearly as if he would have shouted it. I was tempted to tell him to do his worst, but the words simply wouldn't come. Despite everything, I wouldn't leave Gage to my father's mercy.

I was pathetic.

"Just give me the details," I listened to him describe the target, and I gradually calmed down as I focused on the task at hand. At least what he asked of me was always straightforward.

Alfred was barely 24 and had initially been prescribed oxy for a bad back, but eventually got hooked on it as a stress relief. He'd been clean for about two months when he met my father and he relapsed last week, allegedly raping a woman in the back of a bar when she wouldn't go home with him.

Of course, no rape had ever taken place, since Alfred was too high to even walk straight and was out cold by that time. Aline was an old friend of dad's looking to make an extra buck, and she never asked too many questions.

I had a bad feeling about this one. From what I'd been told, Alfred seemed like the righteous type, born white, rich and self-entitled, acting holier than thou while spending Monday to Friday scamming people out of their life savings without a shred of remorse. A stockbroker was never an easy target, and I'd tried to warn father off him. But greed never failed to outweigh rationality. It didn't help that mom had left him over someone with a similar

"Don't get there at 7 sharp. Let him stew for a couple," he didn't wait for an answer before hanging up.

We've already let him stew for a week, but I wasn't certain he'd fall for it. I called Declan, letting him in on the plan.

"Do you think we'll have to off him?" he didn't sound anxious at the prospect of murder anymore; his tone was one of indifferent curiosity, as if he were enquiring about a business opportunity. Which, in a way, was exactly what this was.

"Possibly. Can you deal with it?" there was a long pause at the other end of the line before he continued, "Yes. If push comes to shove, leave that to me"

If this turned out the way I'd expected it to, he'd be the fourth failure over the last four years. Of course, it wouldn't be straightforward. He would die in a car accident, or overdose, or perhaps accidentally drown. And if push did indeed come to shove, father had long since talked to the gravedigger at St. Mary's, who was willing to look the other way for the right amount of cash. But father wouldn't be happy digging into his savings, and it was bound to have repercussions. I remembered what he'd done last time we failed, and I involuntarily shuddered.

I holstered my gun, taking comfort in the fact that I would probably not have to use it. I had crossed many lines, but murder wasn't one of them. Human life was precious, and every time I saw one wasted I felt irrationally unsettled. And while sometimes it was inevitable, the thought of taking an active part in it made my stomach turn.

I remembered the first time my father had seen the gun case on my bedside table, and assumed I'd bought it for myself. I could still see the proud smile on his face, feel the pat on the back. You're finally seeing things for what they are Nathaniel.

Those words kept ringing in my head for a long time, and I couldn't help but feel resentful that one of the few times my father had been proud of me it had indirectly been Gage's merit.

xxxx

"How about I give you half of that and we just forget this whole story, okay?" Alfred fumbled with his chequebook, and I made eye contact with Declan, trying not to burst out laughing. It was times like this, when an idiot tried to bargain his way out of being extorted, that I actually enjoyed working for my father.

"How about I put it this way," I gestured Decan over and he walked closer, holding a joint in one hand and his pistol in another, "You can either give us the money as we originally agreed or you can text your girlfriend and tell her you might bring some friends over for dinner," I let out a theatrical sigh, "That is, of course, if you even make it to dinner,"

The sight of the gun got Alfred talking, "C'mon, this can't be real. Am I supposed to believe you're what? Mobsters? I didn't rape anyone! I've never seen her in my life!"

"If this goes to court, it will be your word against mine, and I'm not sure how much credibility a junkie has against a conservative jury," Aline played her part well, even shedding a few tears for show, her cheap mascara marking jagged lines on her pale face.

I could see the fight go out of him as he thought it over. "If I write the cheque, will you let me go unharmed?" although he'd seemed confident a few minutes earlier, he was now eyeing the gun suspiciously. He wasn't as stupid as I'd thought after all. Or so I'd thought.

I nodded, and although he still seemed reluctant, he pulled the wads of cash out of his coat pocket. As he handed me the stack, he made a sudden grab for Declan, and despite being much skinnier, the element of surprise helped him topple Declan over. Fortunately, Declan had been in his fair share of street fights, and he pummelled the guy mercilessly, until his eye was swollen shut and his hair streaked with blood.

He would've kept going, if I hadn't stepped in and forcefully pulled Declan off the poor guy.

"That's enough! We got the money. Killing him would draw too much attention to it, don't you think?" he seemed to back down, then thought better of it, and faked another kick to his ribs. Alfred tried to move away in fright, moaning in pain, and Declan laughed, "Calm down dude, you heard the boss. You get to live,"

"You're such a bore sometimes," I shot Aline a cold look, and her hands shot up in playful surrender, before sticking her hand out greedily for her cut. I split the money and send them on their way, before bending down and taking off Alfred's watch and emptying out his wallet. He put up no resistance, and I was glad for it. "You brought this upon yourself," he was too out of it to do more than groan.

That's when I realised I was being followed. It wasn't much to go by; a shuddering breath followed by the scratch of gravel. Anyone else might have dismissed it, but I knew this was bound to happen at some point, and I was certain I hadn't imaged it.

I got up and walked away briskly, but I wasn't headed for my car. I wondered if Kaylah had taken pictures, or perhaps a video of it, and I forced myself to slow down as to not alert her.

I took a sharp right on a narrow alley and waited. At first, I thought she'd gathered enough sense and not follow a guy she considered shady at best, a psychopath at worst, into a dark side alley. But people are rarely rational.

Before she could react, I grabbed her hair, and used my whole strength to push her up against the cement wall. I had the element of surprise, and she stumbled. Her head smacked against the wall, and it must've hurt, but she was nimbler than I'd given her credit for, even on heels. She kicked me in the shin, hard enough to make me let go of her hair. I suppose she would've even escaped, if I hadn't unholstered my gun and placed it against her temple, letting the cool metal kiss her skin. At that, her struggling ceased and she went rigid, her breath coming in shallow puffs.

"Not entirely smart to follow a guy into a side alley at," I made a show of checking my watch, even though I didn't have to "almost 10pm now. I must've lost track of time," when she stayed silent, I continued.

"So, what was the plan?" she spat me on the cheek, and I graciously wiped it off before gingerly prying her phone out of her grasp and placing it in my pocket. "Spitting isn't very dignified now, is it?"

She looked me straight in the eye, and her gaze was wary, calculating. "Why? Why can't you just leave her alone?" to her credit, her voice didn't tremble.

I cocked my head to the side and picked up a strand of her hair, twirling it between my fingers idly. "Why would I? She loves me, doesn't she?" I had hoped for it to get a reaction out of her, and I was rewarded by a flash of anger in her eyes, her mouth twisting into a grim smile.

"But you don't. So why take it out on her, when your problem is with Gage?" her contempt was loud and clear, but I could hear something else. Desperation, and perhaps a little bit of fear.

"Because he loves her. And that's enough."

I can't say I was surprised Gage had told her about our history. But I was curious to know how much she actually knew. So, I asked.

"Enough to know it probably hurts to know that I've slept with him and you haven't" I was almost certain she was bluffing, but it angered me all the same.

"You know nothing," I pushed the barrel of the gun harder against her temple, making her head angle slightly to the left, and she let out a small sob.

"I don't want to hurt you" I meant it.  But wanting to do something is rarely synonymous to having to do it. I forced myself to take a step back and slacken my hand a bit. "I see a lot of myself in you. In fact, I admire you, Kay,"

I really looked at her then. Kaylah's eyes were wide, and her glasses had been knocked askew. I raised my hand to set them straight, and she flinched, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment. Even in the dim light the single lightbulb offered, she still was something to look at, eyeliner stark against skin now pale with fear and lips painted dark burgundy. She reminded me of a porcelain doll, delicate and so fragile.

"You're beautiful, you know. I bet you'll make a fine lawyer too. I can tell by your eyes," I tried to look calm, but I could feel my hand shaking and my adrenaline spiking. I wasn't a killer, and I racked my brain for a way out of this.

She looked taken aback by my statement, as if I'd somehow offended her. "What is wrong with you?" her tone was incredulous.

"That's the first good question you've asked so far. Sadly, I don't know the answer either," I thought back on the many times I'd walked into the psychologist's office at the insistence of my mother, and how every session he gave my mom empty encouragements about how the next time would be better.

What is wrong with me? Nothing, love. You're just a bit different. I'd asked her time and time again, and it took me a long time to understand why she couldn't look me in the ye after that.

Since Kaylah never broke eye contact, she noticed I had staring right through her, and seized her opportunity to make a run for it. She kicked me in the shin again, hard enough to make my hand drop away from her temple. The crack of the gun was deafening, and for a moment, I didn't know if I'd hit her, the wall behind her, or somehow shot myself. Until her knees buckled, and she sagged against the wall, hand clutching her midsection.

"You-"she gulped, "Your-your safety wasn't on," she stared at me, bewildered, as if she didn't quite understand what had just happened. Her shirt was black, but when she moved her right hand, I caught a flash of red. My stomach flipped.

At some point, I had dropped my gun, and I quickly went to pick it up, as she slumped farther against the wall, hitting the ground. I grabbed for my gun which I'd dropped at some point and placed it back in my holster. Then, I simply stared at her. At what I'd done.

"P-p-please, call-," it was painful to watch her wrench those words out in between broken dry sobs, as the initial shock gave way to reality, "911"

"I'm sorry, I can't do that," I really was. But I was too close to risk it now.

She seemed to know what I was thinking, and said with more force than I thought possible, "I won't tell anyone" she looked at me then, and I saw tears running down her cheeks, and her mouth quivering.

"You know I can't believe that. You don't, either," I didn't dare another look at her, for fear I might give in. Instead, I turned my back on her, and slowly started to walk away, my mind reeling. I am not a killer. I'm not my father. I-

"Why do I deserve to die?" she was full on bawling now, her delicate frame quivering. She coughed once, a wet, painful sound I realised I'd carry with me for as long as I lived.

"I never said you did. But then, most people don't,"

I quickened my pace, and I could hear her start screaming for help. But it was much too low for anyone to hear unless they were walking right by the alley, and everyone avoided this part of town, even in full daylight. I crossed to the other side of the road and took in a long breath, looking out towards the horizon, letting the harsh salty air wash over my face, listening to the wind whistling its way through deserted streets.

I grabbed the railing hard, trying to keep my knees from buckling. Suddenly, I snapped my head to the side, and threw up. I sat there, shock still, and stared at the gun in my hands, not quite processing it.

Gage must know she followed me. The sudden thought hit me hard, forcefully pulling me back to the present. I slid down to the ground, my thoughts deafeningly loud in the complete silence and I couldn't quite believe I wasn't yet screaming. A verse came to mind, and the irony of the moment struck me as odd.

After all, sometimes quiet is violent.