The streets of Philadelphia were quiet and barren, something Arthur had grown used to since winter had come around. He walked along the sidewalk, hugging his jacket close to him as fresh snowflakes fell from above. Streetlights flickered overhead as he made his way to the gas station at the end of the street.

  It was close to midnight, maybe a little past. Arthur didn’t know exactly—he hadn’t checked his phone since he left the apartment. He just needed to get out for a bit. Too much time indoors made his head feel heavy, and besides, being outside felt nice. His shoes made wet, dragging sounds as he crossed an intersection. The corner store on 19th was already dark. Same with the laundromat next to it. Only the gas station at the end of the block still showed signs of life—fluorescent lights buzzing through its big glass windows like a lighthouse at sea.

  The lot was empty except for one red car parked off to the side, its engine idling, exhaust fuming out in slow waves. Arthur didn’t think much of it after all, he did have the unfortunate habit of sitting and playing on his phone for some time as his car idled. More than anything, it was probably a guy waiting for someone inside. He stepped up to the door and pushed it open, the small bell above ringing out into the otherwise silent night.

  The warmth hit him almost immediately, alongside the scents of burned coffee, stale sugar, and a recently mopped floor with cheap lemon cleaner. The radio on the back shelf behind the counter was playing quietly—some talk show drifting into static. The man behind the counter, an old man with gray-streaked hair and a tired posture, looked up just long enough to give Arthur a nod before returning to look at the magazine he had sprawled out in front of him.

  Arthur didn’t say anything. He just made his way toward the coffee machine, its old metal frame humming as it kept the contents hot. He reached for a cup from the stack and started filling it from the hazelnut tap. It was his favorite flavor alongside the occasional cinnamon-flavored ones. It sputtered a bit, steam rising, and he could already tell it’d taste like burnt wood. Still, it was warm and better than nothing.

  He turned toward the counter just in time to see the clerk yawn, rubbing one eye before glancing up at the sound of the machine clicking off. The man offered a tired nod again, then went and began to ring up the drink. This had become a sort of nightly ritual between the two lately, as they never really say anything to one another. Just the brief exchange of money, the beep of the register, and maybe a grunt of acknowledgment if either of them felt generous.

  Arthur placed a crumpled five on the counter and took the coffee without a word. The old man nodded at the piece of paper and opened the register as he mouthed the amount of change he needed to give him. At the same time, the bell above the door rang.

  As the old man looked up and was about to give him his change, just a few quarters and a dime, he froze. Arthur caught the shift instantly. The man’s face drained of color, his body stiffened, and his eyes locked onto something just over his shoulder. His hand, still holding the coins, began to tremble slightly, the sound of the change rattling almost lost beneath the hum of the lights.

  Arthur turned halfway to look but stopped once he felt something cold and hard pressed against the back of his head.

  “Don’t. Move,” a voice hissed—quiet, though Arthur could hear the tinge of fear at the edges of it. Arthur froze as instructed, not because he wanted to, but because his body simply wouldn’t respond. His limbs locked up, and his breath hitched in his throat. The pressure of the gun rested right against his skull. Had there been a mirror nearby, he most likely would have been a white as the old man in front of him.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Open the drawer,” the man said, now addressing the clerk.

  The old man didn't respond. He stared at Arthur, or maybe past him, lips parted slightly as though he were going to say something.

  “I said open it!” the gunman snapped again.

  The clerk nodded, finally moving. His hand reached toward the register slowly, and he tapped in the override code. The drawer clicked open with a mechanical chirp. Bills lay neatly folded inside as from behind Arthur, a small bag was thrown onto the counter.

  “Fill it. Fast,” the gunman ordered.

  The clerk hesitated. Just for a second. Maybe out of defiance. Maybe fear. His eyes flicked to Arthur, then back to the weapon before he started gathering the bills, one slow handful at a time. Each bundle made a faint crinkle as it dropped into the bag. The gunman shifted behind Arthur, muttering under his breath—short, frantic fragments that Arthur couldn't even hope to understand. His hand hadn’t moved from the back of Arthur’s head.

  Arthur’s arms were still raised, his body locked in place. Every part of him screamed to do something, yet his body refused ot move even the slightest. He watched as the last of the money was thrown into the bag and the old man began to move to close the register. But just before the clerk could push the drawer shut, Arthur watched as his left hand drifted lower towards something underneath the counter.

  The motion was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Arthur saw it. He was trying to press the panic button, but just like Arthur, the gunman saw what he was doing as well.

  “Don’t,” the gunman snapped, stepping in closer. Arthur felt the muzzle of the gun shift away from his head as it was now locked onto the clerk, who still looked deathly afraid. The gunman shifted his position, steady despite the tension in his voice. “I said don’t.”

  The clerk looked at him, many emotions visible in his eyes. Arthur could see fear, terror, and god knows what else, but despite that, his hand kept moving. Then, with the smallest echo Arthur had ever heard, there was a click. Had he not been near the register, who possibly wouldn't have even perceived such a noise, but now it echoed around them. The gunman was silent for a brief moment, just a couple of seconds, before he pulled the trigger.

  The sound of the gunshot was deafening. Arthur flinched hard as the crack of the pistol split the air like a thunderclap in a church. The muzzle flash lit up the front of the counter for a heartbeat, and in that blink of light, Arthur saw the old man jerk backward, arms splaying wide, blood blooming across his chest in a jagged, spreading stains as three bullets hit him.

  The clerk slammed into the shelf behind him with a sickening thud, knocking over an open box of receipts. Then he dropped out of view, disappearing behind the counter like someone had pulled the floor out from beneath him. There was no scream from the old man—just the sudden, violent end to something that had been seconds away from surviving.

  Arthur didn’t move. Rather, he couldn’t. The back of his throat was locked up, breath trapped somewhere behind his ribs. He stared at where the man had fallen, at the mess that had spilled behind the counter, just as he felt the gun be placed against the side of his head.

  The metal was warm, much warmer than the coffee he still held in his hands. The gunman didn't say anything to him, instead rambling in crazed whispers as he realized what he had just done. Even now, Arthur could hear the wail of sirens as they got closer and closer.

  The gunman’s voice cracked as he finally spoke, fear and terror now reigning supreme. “Oh fuck…I didn’t mean to... he wasn’t supposed to...”

  Arthur didn’t respond as he felt the man’s hand shove him forward. His knees buckled, and he hit the floor hard, palms scraping across the cold tile. The half-spilled coffee soaked into his sleeves, mixing with the thin layer of slush he had tracked in minutes earlier. His breath hitched in his throat as he rolled slightly, instinctively trying to look behind him. That’s when he saw him—really saw him—for the first time.

  The gunman looked no older than fifteen years old. His face was gaunt and pale, like he hadnt even much or seen the sun in some time. His eyes were wide, unfocused and darting in every direction like a trapped animal in a cage. He had short hair, slicked back and half-matted with sweat, strands clinging to his forehead. His black hoodie was stained—maybe from snow, maybe something else—and the cuffs were frayed, unraveling like he’d been wearing the same clothes for days.

  Outside, the sirens grew louder. Red and blue lights danced across the window, fractured by falling snow and fogged glass. The world beyond the store was closing in fast, but in that moment, it felt impossibly distant. Just background noise to the cold ring of steel now pointed at Arthurs head.

  The boy didn’t speak. He just stared down at Arthur, jaw clenched, breathing hard.

  And then he pulled the trigger.