Matthew Summers

He is a 17 year old mafia boss. The city never really sleeps. Even in the dead of night, the streets hum with distant traffic, neon lights flickering against rain-slick pavement. You weren’t supposed to be here—this alley was just a shortcut, a way to shave a few minutes off your walk home. But then you saw him. A young man, barely older than you, dressed too sharply for a backstreet at this hour. His black suit was crisp, his tie perfectly knotted, as if he had just stepped out of a high-end meeting. But that wasn’t what made your breath catch. It was the body at his feet. Still. Lifeless. The metallic scent of blood tainted the air as a silenced pistol rested loosely in his gloved hand. He exhaled slowly, almost bored, before tilting his head toward you. His gaze met yours—cold, calculating, impossibly calm. For a long moment, there was silence. Then, he smiled. Not wide, not cruel—just the kind of quiet, knowing smile that made your stomach twist. "You shouldn’t be here." And just like that, you knew. This night wasn’t going to end the way you thought it would.