Rain pressed down like a living thing, steady, relentless, turning the windshield into a blurred sheet of trembling light. It swallowed the world beyond the glass, smeared neon into bleeding streaks, bent streetlamps into ghostly halos. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, a hollow metallic rhythm that echoed inside the silence of the car. Joe sat unmoving behind the wheel, hands resting limp on his thighs, shoulders slumped forward beneath the weight of something he could no longer name.
Nothing left to hold onto.
The thought didn't feel dramatic. It didn't feel loud. It settled instead, quiet and cold, like fog creeping into an empty room.
He stared ahead, but he wasn't seeing the street. Not really. The image of the bus pulling away kept replaying behind his eyes, over and over, like a loop he couldn't break. Sydney's face turned away. Melanie's silence. The way the engine roared to life and took everything with it.
You didn't stop them.
His jaw tightened, but there was no anger in it. Just exhaustion.
After a long minute, maybe longer, he exhaled slowly and reached for the handle. The door creaked open, and the rain came rushing in, sharp and immediate, soaking into his coat before he even stepped out. It clung to him instantly, cold fingers slipping through fabric, crawling down his neck, his sleeves, his spine.
He didn't react.
The door shut behind him with a dull thud. He stood there for a moment, letting the rain hit him, listening to it drum against asphalt, against metal, against everything. The world felt distant. Muted.
Then he moved.
Each step toward the bar was slow, deliberate, like his body had to be reminded how to function. Water pooled under his shoes. Neon signs flickered overhead, casting weak pulses of red and blue across the wet pavement. The building itself looked worn, its signage half-lit, buzzing faintly like it was struggling to stay alive.
He pushed the door open.
Warmth hit him first. Then noise.
The bar was alive in that peculiar way places get on nights they shouldn't be. Laughter spilled from one corner, too loud, too forced. Glasses clinked. A jukebox hummed softly beneath the chatter, some old rock song playing low, its melody warped by age and overuse. The air smelled thick, alcohol, sweat, fried food, something faintly sour beneath it all.
Joe stepped inside, dripping onto the wooden floor. A few heads turned, just briefly, then looked away. He wasn't anything special. Just another man walking in from the rain.
He made his way to the counter.
The stool creaked under his weight as he sat. His coat stuck slightly to the wood, water pooling beneath him. He didn't bother taking it off.
The bartender glanced up. Mid-forties, tired eyes, practiced expression.
"Usual?" he asked, already reaching for a glass.
Joe shook his head faintly, voice rough when it came out. "What's the strongest thing you've got?"
The bartender paused, studying him for half a second longer than necessary. Then he nodded once.
"Everclear. 190 proof."
Joe let out a quiet breath, almost a humorless laugh. "Yeah. That'll do."
"You want a shot or…"
"The bottle."
That got a look.
Not judgment. Just recognition.
"Rough day?" the bartender asked, already turning to grab it.
Joe stared at the counter, fingers tracing the faint grooves in the wood. "Yeah," he muttered. "Something like that."
The bottle hit the counter with a dull clink. A small shot glass followed.
Joe didn't hesitate. He poured.
The liquid was clear. Innocent-looking. It burned before it even touched his lips.
He drank.
It hit like fire.
His throat tightened instantly, chest constricting as the alcohol tore its way down. His eyes watered, but he didn't stop. He swallowed hard, exhaling through his nose as the burn spread outward, settling deep in his stomach like a lit match.
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing through it.
Then he poured another.
And another.
Time blurred.
The bar noise faded into something distant, like it was happening in another room. Conversations turned into muffled echoes. Laughter lost its shape. The world narrowed down to the glass in his hand, the bottle in front of him, and the steady rhythm of pouring and drinking.
His shoulders loosened.
His thoughts didn't.
Just quit.
The idea slipped in quietly.
He stared at the liquid in his glass, watching it ripple slightly with the movement of his hand.
Quit the job. Move. Start over.
It sounded simple. Clean.
Would that fix it?
He swallowed another shot, barely reacting this time.
Sydney's face surfaced again. The way she looked at him. Not angry. Not even sad.
Done.
His grip tightened around the glass.
She's already gone.
The realization didn't hit like a punch. It settled deeper than that. Heavier.
He poured again.
You're the only one still holding on.
A faint laugh escaped him, low and hollow.
"Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "Sounds about right."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the counter. His head dipped, eyes unfocused.
You hurt her.
The thought came sharper this time.
He swallowed.
She wouldn't leave if you didn't.
His chest tightened.
You did this.
Another drink.
The burn didn't matter anymore.
So fix it.
He exhaled shakily.
"Fix it how…" he murmured.
Quit the job? Be there? Be present? Be what she needed?
Too late.
His jaw clenched.
"Not too late," he muttered, a little louder now.
A few glances flicked his way. He didn't notice.
You think quitting changes anything?
His mind pushed back, relentless.
You think the Thornes will just let you walk away?
His hand stilled on the glass.
Right... That...
Even if he left. Even if he disappeared.
They'd still come.
For him.
For them.
A slow, bitter realization spread through him.
"There's no way out, is there?" he whispered.
Not really.
Stay, and fight something bigger than him.
Leave, and drag his family into the dark anyway.
His grip tightened until his knuckles whitened.
You thought you could fix this.
A humorless chuckle slipped out.
"Yeah," he said softly. "That was the plan."
Just a case of, Hero complex.
The words hit harder than anything else.
He closed his eyes.
You couldn't even protect them.
Sydney's voice echoed faintly in his mind. Not her words. Just the feeling behind them.
Absence.
Failure.
He poured again, hands slightly unsteady now.
And you think you can save this city?
He drank.
The world tilted slightly.
"Yeah," he muttered. "That's… that's the funny part."
A sudden shove jolted him forward.
Liquid sloshed over the rim of the glass, spilling across his hand and the counter.
"Watch it," someone snapped.
Joe blinked, slow, disoriented. He turned his head, vision struggling to focus on the figure beside him.
A man. Late twenties. Irritated.
Something inside Joe snapped. Not loud. Not explosive.
Just… thin.
"Maybe you should watch where you're going," Joe slurred, voice low but sharp.
The man frowned. "Excuse me?"
Joe pushed himself upright, swaying slightly. "You heard me."
"Hey, man, I said it was an accident."
"Yeah?" Joe's lips curled faintly. "You got a lot of those?"
The tension shifted instantly.
Chairs scraped. Conversations dipped.
"Look," the guy said, raising his hands slightly. "I'm not looking for trouble."
Joe let out a short laugh. "Funny. Feels like it found you anyway."
"Alright," the man muttered, stepping back. "You're drunk."
"Oh yeah," Joe shot back. "What gave it away?"
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
"Let it go," another voice said, firmer this time.
Joe shrugged it off.
"Don't touch me."
The next moment was a haze, there was a sudden shove, a quick swing, and then the jarring thud of impact.
Pain flared across his jaw as a fist connected. The world tilted violently, the bar spinning around him as he staggered back into the counter. Glass shattered somewhere to his left.
Then more hands.
More hits.
He tried to swing back, but his arms felt heavy, slow, disconnected. His footing slipped. Another blow to his ribs forced the air out of him in a sharp grunt.
On any other day, he could've handled this.
Tonight, he couldn't even stand straight.
Someone shoved him hard, and he went down, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The noise of the bar surged back in, chaotic now, voices overlapping, someone shouting for them to stop.
A boot connected with his side.
Then another.
"Get him out of here!"
Hands grabbed him, dragging him across the floor. His vision swam, lights smearing into streaks as the door was thrown open.
Cold air hit him again.
Rain.
He was shoved forward, stumbling out onto the pavement. His knees buckled, and he caught himself just barely before hitting the ground.
The door slammed behind him.
For a moment, he just stood there, swaying slightly.
"Yeah," he slurred, turning back toward the door. "That's right… run."
No one answered.
The rain swallowed his voice.
He let out a weak breath, turning away. His car sat across the street, headlights reflecting faintly under the streetlights.
He made his way toward it, steps uneven, body aching with each movement.
The door handle felt cold under his fingers.
He paused.
Stared at it.
Then blinked slowly.
You're drunk, right?
He was.
A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips.
"Still a cop," he muttered.
He let go of the handle.
Locked the door.
Turned away.
The street stretched ahead, empty and wet, lit by rows of dim yellow lamps. Rain continued to fall, steady and indifferent.
He started walking.
Each step felt heavier than the last. His body dragged behind him, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. The alcohol blurred everything, softened the edges of the world, but it didn't dull the weight inside his chest.
If anything, it made it louder.
He didn't know how long he walked.
Minutes. Maybe longer.
At some point, his foot caught on uneven pavement.
He stumbled.
Then fell.
The ground came up fast, hard, knocking the breath out of him as he hit the sidewalk. For a moment, he just lay there, rain soaking into him completely now, clothes clinging to his skin.
He didn't move.
Didn't try to get up.
Eventually, he rolled slightly, dragging himself toward the nearest support he could find. A lamppost stood just a few feet away, its dull yellow light cutting through the rain like a quiet beacon.
He pulled himself up against it, back sliding down the cold metal until he was sitting, slumped, head tilted upward.
The light haloed above him. Soft and warm.
For a second, his vision blurred in a strange way.
An angel.
The thought came uninvited.
He stared at it, eyes half-lidded, breathing uneven.
Then he blinked.
The illusion broke.
Just a streetlamp.
A hollow laugh escaped him, barely audible.
"Figures…"
His head dropped forward.
And then, without warning, something inside him gave way.
Tears welled up, spilling over before he even realized what was happening. They mixed with the rain instantly, indistinguishable, running down his face in silent streams.
He didn't make a sound.
Didn't sob.
Didn't shake.
He just… cried.
Quietly and empty.
So so empty.
Like there was nothing left to hold it back.
The rain kept falling as the light kept burning above him.
And Joe sat there, at the edge of everything, with nothing left to hold onto.