The restaurant was subtly emptying. Tables screeched. Feet dragged. Every movement the servers made felt like a performance greetings too sweet, smiles too sharp, steps too quiet.
Vincent had seen this before. Déjà vu, but not the mystical kind. The deadly kind.
"We're out," he whispered to the two crew guys he always kept close. The feeling tightened with each step toward the exit. Even the air felt like it wanted him gone.
Half-open door. Glass shattered. One of his men dropped.
Vincent hit the ground with instinct. No time for shock. He let off two desperate shots.
Peppy, the youngest, hesitated recognized a face in the chaos and caught a bullet to the thigh.
"Vincent's mine!"
Dave. Voice like a knife, movements like one too. His blade clenched in a fist.
"Hey, hold up! Vincent? We're killing fuckin' Vincent now?" Gid yelled, gun up but aim shaky. The room paused. The crew hesitated.
Dave exhaled. He expected this. But what would Shan do?
"We already killed one of his guys," Dave said, voice heavy, face blank. "You think Vincent's gonna wanna hear an apology?"
Still no gunfire. Not yet.
"Mm-hmm," Dave nodded, slow and cold. "You motherfuckers feelin' soft, huh? What's the first rule on these streets?"
He let the silence thicken.
"Survive."
A murmur ran through the group. Uncertainty was shifting.
Dave struck.
"Let's end Vincent. This is our block, ain't it?"
And just like that the bullets started again.
The restaurant devolved. Chairs overturned. Bodies slumped or ducked. Vincent's crew got pinned.
Then sirens.
Not relief. Nostalgia. A sound from another era. The police.
For a moment, the chaos paused. People scrambled. One of Vincent's men tried crawling away, smeared in red.
Vincent scanned for his phone. Not in his pockets. There. By a toppled table. He sprinted, grabbed it, dialed.
Logan. Chief of Police.
It rang. Picked up on the fourth.
"Send your boys to Canny Tea. I don't care how. I don't care who. Kill the gang outside," Vincent ordered, voice sharp, laced with desperation.
"I... I don't think interfering in your turf war is in my best interest," Logan stammered, quickly firming up.
"It's not a fuckin' war! I can't reach my main crew, they're out the city. You help me, I owe you."
A beat.
Then—
BRRRT.
Mechanical. Precise. Vincent's right arm bled. His gun hand.
BRRRT-BRRRT.
Serpents spat fire.
TRRRRT! DA-DA-DA-DA! BRRAKKA-KKA-KKA!
One became many. The police had arrived.
Vincent ran. Dave didn't flinch.
"Izzy, Drew, with me! The rest cover and distract!" he barked, reloading mid-stride.
The crew pointed 16 muzzles at flashing blue lights. Dave, Izzy, and Drew surged into the wreckage.
Vincent made for the bathroom. A wild shot grazed Dave's head but ricocheted off the counter.
He was losing blood. Fast. Gun useless.
"Pft—CRACK."
Izzy dropped. Shot through the side.
But they'd forgotten: Vincent still had two men with him.
Drew swiveled. Shot one in the face. Took one in the gut.
Dave didn't care. Mission over mercy.
Now he was alone. But still moving.
He slowly pushed open the bathroom door. Storm outside. Storm in his head. Another behind this door.
Vincent couldn't hold his weapon. Blood loss stealing strength by the second. He saw half of Dave's body creeping in.
That was enough.
He slammed the door into Dave, disarming him. Swung a left. Slammed Dave against the wall. Grabbed his neck.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Measured rage.
By the third hit, Dave bled from the mouth, still conscious.
"Sh...a...n hits h...arder," Dave whispered.
Vincent opened up his stance prepping the finisher.
Dave felt it. Struck Vincent in the chest with an elbow.
Pain bloomed. Vincent staggered. Vision blurred.
Outside, police megaphones roared.
"We're good! Got the call!"
Cars peeled off. Bullets slowed. Dave's crew, dazed, still breathing.
---
Dave sat beside his broken alarm clock. Face bruised. Arm burning. It was past midnight.
He'd caught minutes of sleep. Nothing real.
He remembered walking out of that bathroom.
Bloody.
Unbowed.
His crew had cheered. Called him king. Demanded promotions.
Vincent's crew? Silent. Untouched.
Dave chuckled.
What's the point of killing God if you leave his disciples?
A turf war, huh? Start it. Win it. Be king of Batsaville?
No.
He wasn't feared. Just respected.
Vincent's crew stayed intact. Dave's? Scattered. Scared. Dead.
Batsaville was a cycle.
Gun changes hands. Nothing changes.
The worst part? When he pulled the trigger...
He felt nothing.
He waited for it to hit. Waited for the grief. The rush. The justification.
But past midnight...
Still no sleep. Still not safe.
Where was his peace?