Mikey struggled in Payne's grip, trying to wrest the knife free, but Payne was too strong. With a single cold shove, he forced Mikey's arm down and threw him back into the booth.
"Don't be so dramatic, Michael." Payne's voice had dropped its charm — now, it was made of steel and ice.
"Sit down. That's in your best interest."
The words slithered down Mikey's spine.
A guard, without a word, stepped forward and handed Payne a crisp white napkin. He took it with his blood-slicked hand, casually wiping it clean as if nothing had happened. He didn't even glance at the wound. No pain. No wince. Just cold detachment.
Mikey, still breathing hard, spat the words out like venom. "You've been lying. To everyone. To me. To the whole damn city."
Payne chuckled — not amused, but mocking. "Now there's the righteous fire," he said, folding the bloodied napkin and setting it aside like it belonged to someone else.
"Let me guess. You think if you scream loud enough, the Chancellor will hear you? Or maybe the Four Directors? That they'll swoop in and scold me?"
He tilted his head.
"You poor kid. You still think the system works."
Mikey's hands balled into fists beneath the table.
"Why'd you do it?"
His voice cracked slightly — but the rage held it steady.
"Why did you kill my dad?"
Payne raised an eyebrow. As if the question were inconvenient, not heavy.
He picked up a crystal decanter, poured himself a drink with his injured hand — the blood streaked the glass. He took a sip, savoring it.
"Why?"
He looked directly at Mikey, his tone suddenly flat.
"Because he was a traitor. A pathetic, cowardly Defector. Like so many others. He just happened to get caught."
Mikey's knuckles turned white.
"Shut up."
His voice was low, almost shaking.
"If you say that about him again, I swear to God I'll—"
"Kill me?"
Payne leaned in, eyes glinting with something darker.
"Good. That's what I like to hear." He grinned — not with humor, but hunger.
"You've got that look in your eye now. That sharpness. All Defectors get it eventually. It's poetic, really."
Mikey's voice was steady now, cutting.
"If I'm a Defector… why not just kill me here?"
Payne shrugged.
"Because you're useful. Smart. Angry. Dangerous."
He leaned back in his seat, swirling his drink.
"You've got potential. Wasting that would be such a shame."
Then Payne's smile faded, replaced by something darker — something dead behind the eyes.
"You said you'd kill me, right?"
Mikey didn't speak — just glared at him. Rage simmered under his skin.
Payne calmly reached into his waistband.
THUD.
He slammed a heavy pistol on the table. The sound echoed. Everyone in the room looked, then quickly looked away.
Payne stared at the gun. Then at Mikey.
"Pick it up."
Mikey hesitated. His breath caught in his throat.
"Pick. It. Up."
Mikey's hand hovered, then slowly, shakily, reached out. His fingers wrapped around the grip. The weight of it felt real. Cold. Dangerous.
"Good."
Payne reached forward, racked the slide with one hand, then grabbed Mikey's wrist and pulled the gun forward, pressing the barrel against his own forehead.
"Come on. Pull the trigger. You want justice? Revenge? You want the truth? Kill me, Michael. Right now. Let's see what you've really got in you."
Mikey's breath was trembling. His finger brushed the trigger.
All the noise of the lounge fell away.
It was just them now.
Two men. One gun.
And a decision that could change everything.
Mikey's hands were shaking, his jaw locked tight, eyes squeezed shut. Every fiber of his body screamed at him not to do it. And yet—click.
Silence.
He opened his eyes slowly.
Payne was still sitting there — alive, untouched — but now wearing a wide, unsettling grin.
"Well done, Michael."
Payne's voice dripped with smug delight.
"That would've killed me. Looks like the gun jammed."
He chuckled, not the kind that came from humor — but from control.
"Lucky me."
Mikey's hands were still frozen around the gun. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Without asking, Payne leaned forward and plucked it from his grip, like taking a toy from a stunned child. Mikey didn't resist — he just sat there, breathing hard, his mind spiraling.
Payne inspected the weapon, turning it over in his blood-streaked fingers, then worked on the jam with mechanical ease.
"You should know," he said casually, "a part of you is probably relieved right now. If you'd actually pulled it off, killed me…"
He glanced sideways.
"You'd have been dead in seconds. Guards here don't ask questions. That's the consequence for a lesser man."
Click. The gun slid cleanly into place.
"But me?" Payne said, almost cheerfully. "I am certainly not a lesser man."
And without another word, he turned the gun to the side and fired.
BANG.
The judge at the next table — a gray-haired man in military ribbons — collapsed forward, blood pooling under him. Glass shattered. People screamed.
Or — no. They should have screamed.
But no one moved.
Not the guards stationed at the booth. Not the judge's own detail. Not the officers drinking nearby.
It was as if the entire lounge — full of law, of order, of power — had collectively decided: Payne Morrison does what he wants.
Mikey stared, horrified. His eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of a reaction — a single outstretched hand, a protest, a question.
But there was nothing. Just silence.
Complicity.
Payne placed the gun gently on the table again, like it was just another conversation piece.
"See?" he said, eyes fixed on Mikey.
"No one's coming. Not for him. Not for you."
Mikey's blood turned to ice.
Payne leaned back in his seat, the lounge's neon blues gleaming off the fresh blood still wet on the barrel of the gun. He fixed Mikey with a look that could freeze bone.
"That, is fear. That's power. That's something you don't have and never will."
His voice dropped lower, darker.
"Control."
Mikey tensed. Rage simmered in his gut as he tried to rise from the booth. But Payne's hand shot out — fast, merciless — grabbing a fistful of Mikey's hair and slamming his head sideways against the metal table.
CLANG.
Pain erupted in Mikey's skull. He felt cold steel press against it. The barrel.
Payne's voice was like ice.
"I kept you alive because I'm feeling generous. Don't mistake that for weakness."
He leaned closer, voice quieter now.
"You so much as think about joining those Defector rats, or coming after me again... and I'll make sure what's left of your skull gets scraped off a street corner. Got it?"
Mikey's breath shook. Real fear pulsed through him now. He nodded, barely.
"Good boy."
Payne let go.
Mikey pushed himself upright, dazed but still burning inside.
Then Payne added, almost offhand, "Oh — and maybe I'll pay someone a visit. What was her name again? That Defector girl from last night? She'll be fun for the boys."
He paused, feigning thought.
"Right. Nadia."
Mikey's blood went white-hot.
"Bastard!"
He lunged at Payne — but he never got close.
One of the guards stepped in, his fist cracking across Mikey's jaw before he could swing. Another caught him in the gut, hard. Mikey collapsed to the floor, wheezing.
Payne didn't flinch. He just stood, straightened his jacket, and took a long sip from his glass.
"Don't rough him up too badly. He's fragile."
Fists and boots landed in a blur. Mikey curled in on himself, unable to breathe, the world spinning around his pain. His ribs screamed, his face pulsed with bruises, and something inside him — the part that once believed in fairness, in rules — cracked.
At last, the beating stopped.
Payne stepped over, crouched down beside Mikey's broken frame. He grabbed him by the hair again, tilting his battered face up.
"Here's what's gonna happen," Payne said quietly, almost like a whisper in the storm. "You're gonna disappear. Go live your little life. Pretend this never happened."
He stood, eyes cold as steel.
"Now get the fuck out of my bar."
The guards grabbed Mikey by the arms and dragged him toward the front door like a broken doll. Then, with a final shove, they hurled him out into the street.
Mikey hit the pavement hard, coughing, blood smearing his chin.
He didn't move for a while. He couldn't. He just lay there under the buzzing city lights, body wrecked, vision swimming — angry, humiliated, and hollow.
He had come looking for answers. Instead, he left with pain.
But in the pit of his soul, deeper than fear, deeper than grief…
A fire had started.