Night pressed quietly against the street.
A thin wash of moonlight spilled between the houses, catching along parked cars and the edges of quiet lawns. Somewhere farther down the block, a dog barked once before the neighborhood settled back into stillness.
A small house stood at the end of the row, its windows dark, curtains drawn. The porch light flickered once before settling into a dull yellow glow.
A motorcycle idled at the curb.
The rider stood at the doorway.
Black covered their body from head to toe. A motorcycle helmet that reflected the porch light in a dull smear. The front door hung open behind them.
They flipped through a stack of papers one last time, sliding the stack into a canvas bag and pulled the zipper shut.
They stepped off the porch, swung the bag to their back, and mounted the motorcycle.
The engine roared once before fading into the distance.
inside, the door closed with a quiet click.
The living room lights were on.
Three people sat against the wall.
Their wrists were bound behind their backs. Their ankles tied together with thick cord. A father, a mother, and their daughter.
Their phones lay shattered across the coffee table.
They kept their heads lowered as footsteps moved across the floor.
The man who had closed the door walked past them slowly.
A tiger insignia stretched across the back of his jacket.
His hair was tied back into a short man-bun, the sides trimmed into a clean two-block cut.
He didn't spare the family a glance.
Instead, he approached the center of the room.
A man, bald, unclothed lay on the floor there.
His body was covered in bruises, ribs rising and falling shallowly beneath the harsh light. Blood had dried along the edge of his mouth.
He stared upward with an empty expression.
The tiger-tattooed man squatted beside him.
The man reached into his coat and drew a pistol.
He checked the chamber.
The barrel rose slowly until it rested against the bald man's forehead.
Behind him, the family shook.
The daughter turned her face away.
The mother squeezed her eyes shut.
The father looked helplessly.
Finally, the man spoke.
"This is the last time I'll ask." His voice was calm.
"Where is that white-haired girl?"
The bald man didn't respond.
He didn't even look at the gun.
His eyes drifted toward the ceiling light before calmly closing.
The tiger-tattooed man chuckled.
The gun fired, the sound cracked through the house like a breaking plate.
The bald man's head snapped sideways and went still, blood spilled across the wooden floor.
Smoke curled faintly from the barrel.
The man stood.
Behind him, the family trembled.
The father looked up to find the gun turning toward his daughter.
"No–"
The word burst out of him before he could stop it.
He leaned forward desperately against the ropes.
"--Please, wait! We don't know anything!"
His voice broke.
"We had nothing to do with this! I swear! We won't tell anyone—we won't—"
The man glanced at the father, the pistol stayed up.
The father's words tangled over themselves.
"Please," he choked. "Please… she's just a child."
The man tilted his head slightly.
"My apologies," he said.
The father looked up, meeting the man's unbothered eyes.
"Loose ends tend to bite back."
The gun fired.
Once.
Then again.
Then again.
The sound of gunshots filled the house before fading back into silence.