Guns N' Gold

TW: Drug use, blood, death, violence, guns

The Right-Hand Man Silvermoon City – October 31st

He had told himself not to do this again, not this year, but the thing about anniversaries was that they remembered you even when you tried to forget them. By sundown, Ouro An’dar was already halfway gone. A few crushed lines of dust burned his throat and senses like frost and fire combined, and in turn the world had shifted into that strange, quiet clarity that only came before disaster. 

He could still hear his boy sometimes, his laughter echoing in the back of his skull like a broken recording. Some nights it was that sound that woke him, but other nights, it was the deafening silence. He didn’t mark the years anymore, just the night that it happened. The Hallow’s End Massacre. The night his world collapsed beneath gunfire and screaming, the night his son’s small voice went silent forever. Time hadn’t dulled it. If anything, it had sharpened the edges and honed them into something cruel. Every October 31st wasn’t a date on the calendar, it was a wound reopening. Ouro believed the pain could only be erased by blood, by personally killing every person who had been responsible for that night.

The Right-Hand Man was still alive, still waiting to be crossed off his list. Ouro had confirmed it three weeks ago, a lucky whisper through a contact in Murder Row. One of the men who had stormed his house that night, who had put a bullet in him and another dozen into the rest of his family. A man who had walked away then, but not tonight.

The underground club where he knew the man to be was built beneath an old shop in Augur’s Row. Hallow’s End decorations hung from the ceiling in the form of black silks and enchanted lanterns shaped like skulls and pumpkins. The bass pounded through the floor, rattling bones, drowning out voices, and syncing everything to a single, relentless pulse.

Ouro crossed the threshold as if slipping into another world, his coat hiding the weight of his weapons: twin pistols at his ribs, a blade in the boot, and another up his sleeve. He wasn’t there to talk or to dance. The dust made the colors breathe, and everything swam in and out of focus. He had done this dance before, hunting through crowds while high enough to forget his name, but tonight was different. Tonight, the air itself felt like it was closing in.

He found the man easily sitting in the VIP alcove, surrounded by people who didn’t matter. Older now, hair going gray at the temples, but still smug, and still that same cold smile. The kind of smile that said he thought the world had forgotten what he did. Ouro watched him for a long time. Long enough for the drink in his hand to go warm, long enough for the pain in his head to become real again, a phantom pain where the old bullet wound had healed.

Then the man eventually rose, weaving through the crowd toward the back hallway. Ouro followed slowly, trying to look like a man too drunk to be dangerous, but the dust betrayed him. Every sound was too bright, every movement too blurred. His boots struck the floor like thunder in his own ears, and the back corridor stretched too long while strobing neon distorted his already hazy gaze.

Halfway down, the man stopped. He didn't turn, just spoke over his shoulder. “You’ve been following me for three minutes, An’dar.” The voice was amused, teasing almost.

Ouro froze, his pulse quickening against his ribs.

The man turned then, eyes glinting under the intense light. “I thought you died. Guess I was wrong.”

Ouro’s hand twitched toward his gun, but the other man moved first. A flash of motion, the strike was brutal and practiced. His palm cracked Ouro’s wrist, sending the pistol spinning down the corridor. The silenced shot came a heartbeat later. Ouro felt the impact first, then serious blooming pain in his side that took his breath followed soon after. He staggered backwards, the wall holding him up while the music from the club pulsed on the other side.

The Right-Hand Man calmly and confidently advanced. “Should’ve left it alone, An’dar. You think this ends well for you?”

Ouro’s laugh was hoarse. “I’m not thinking about me.”

He moved with the kind of precision that only comes from old training and desperation. His knife cleared his sleeve while his other hand gripped the man’s shoulder, cleanly slicing the blade across his throat in one smooth arc. A brief, gurgling gasp followed, swallowed by the bass rumbling through the walls.

The man collapsed forward, his eyes wide and mouth opening and closing without sound. Ouro held him upright, staring into glossy eyes until life left them and the body went still. Then he let him slide down the wall, leaving a dark smear all the way to the floor. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing hard, blood soaking through his shirt, the dust making everything shimmer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of red across his cheek.

When he stumbled back into the main room, no one looked twice. It was Hallow’s End, everyone was painted in blood and laughing behind masks. He pushed through the dancers, his steps heavy as he pressed a hand to the gunshot wound on his side. When he found the alley exit, the cooler air outside hit him like a slap. He leaned against the brick wall, gasping and trying to steady himself. The dust was burning out now, leaving behind only pain and a deep, shaking emptiness.

He fumbled for his comm, sending off a message with his location to the one person, the only person, that would come: Xylaes. His comm clattered to one side as he looked at his blood-covered hands. Somewhere deep in the haze, he thought about his son’s face, but couldn’t remember the sound of his voice anymore. That was the worst part. The pain in his side flared hot, and then dulled again. He let his head rest against the wall as the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and crimson. Maybe, for the first time in years, he could let himself rest.