cole

The silence on the edge of Mission District was thick, broken only by the low rumble of the Chevrolet Suburban’s engine. The abandoned factory loomed under the harsh glare of the headlights, looking like something pulled straight from Cole’s fractured memories.

Leaning against the hood, Cole took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring in the dark. His gaze flicked to Mateo, who was on the phone again, laughing too loud, flirting with some girl who didn’t know any better.

He exhaled smoke through his nose, watching it curl into the night. If Mateo got them caught because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants for five minutes, Cole was gonna put a bullet in his kneecap himself.

Cole crushed the cigarette under his boot, never breaking eye contact as he closed the distance between them. His palm landed heavy on Mateo’s shoulder—once, twice—cutting off another goddamn monologue about some girl’s "fine ass."

“Enough,” Cole’s voice was low, a graveled threat swallowed by the night. He nodded toward the approaching headlights cutting through the fog. “Your hoe can wait. This is business.”

Mateo killed the call without so much as a goodbye, flashing that infuriating smirk. "Cole, mio amico, you’re allergic to romance." The Italian lilt grated worse than usual tonight, but Cole let his hand drop anyway.

Mateo hefted the duffel bag into the trunk with a grunt, then turned, blowing a mocking kiss in Cole’s direction. “Arrivederci, amico,” he sang, leaning against the car door. “Try not to scare the ghosts with that face of yours.”

The car pulled away, taillights bleeding into the darkness. Left alone, Cole stood silent before the skeletal remains of the factory—the air thick with memory and the taste of rust.

His eyes lingered on the factory’s dark silhouette—a tombstone against the bruised sky. By tomorrow, some junkie scrounging for a fix would stumble upon a body. Another “very important asshole” with his brains decorating the concrete. The news would buzz again. Another statistic. Another warning no one would heed.

Cole slid into the driver’s seat, the leather groaning under his weight. Silence pressed in like a weight on his chest—thick, suffocating. He didn’t do well with quiet. Quiet meant thinking. Thinking meant remembering.

The engine snarled to life. He didn’t look back. The bar was calling—loud, warm, and full of things that helped him forget.

Twenty minutes later, Cole pushed through the familiar bar door, the place having become more of a home than his own apartment these past months. The bartender—that sweet thing August had taken a shine to—was on shift again, wiping down glasses with that same tired smile.

Cole moved toward his usual booth in the back, a shadowed corner where he could watch the room without being seen. He shrugged off his leather jacket, letting it slump over the chair like a second skin discarded. A nod toward the bar—the usual—and then he was moving, slipping past the counter into the back hall without a word.

The door creaked as he slipped through. Three flights up, the rooftop waited—a kingdom of cracked concrete and flickering neon. Some nights, he just needed the cold air, the quiet, the city sprawled out like a corpse beneath him.

He fished the pack from his jeans pocket, tapping out a cigarette with a practiced flick of his wrist. Bringing it to his lips, he caught the filter between his teeth—a familiar, bitter taste already on his tongue. His thumb hovered over the lighter, the flame poised to kiss the tobacco. But then—movement. A shift in the shadows near the ledge. His eyes narrowed, the lighter still unlit. Someone was standing there. Too close to the edge. Too still.

The hell…?

For a long second, he just watched. Then, slow, deliberate, he took a step forward.

“You know,” he began, voice low and steady, cutting through the rooftop’s quiet like a blade. “You’d have to be a special kind of stupid to try and kill yourself jumping from four stories.” Cole took a slow step forward. But he stopped when they turned—a flicker of movement, a face half-lit by the city’s glow. "Fall from this height? Yeah, you’re not dying. Just snapping your spine nice and clean. Couple years shitting in a bag, if you’re lucky."

He plucked the cigarette from his lips, tucking it behind his ear. The weight of the Glock against his hip was a quiet reminder. "If you’re that eager to check out, I could do you a favor. One pull of the trigger—clean, quick. No suffering." A humorless smirk twisted his mouth. "Hell, I’d even do it for free."

A heavy sigh escaped him as he shook his head. This was pathetic. “Get down from there. Stop wasting my time.” His gaze hardened. “What’s your name? And what the hell happened that made you think your life is so fucking worthless?”