I give myself a mental butt slap and walk into the alley. It takes a minute for St. Clare to spot me. Something about his shadowy posture goes stiff as I close the distance between us. Close enough to face him but not close enough to know the exact moment he panics.

I can do this.

“Who are you?” he asks in a deep voice that plucks up the hairs on my arms.

I can do this.

“What do you want?”

I can do this. I can do this.

My grip on the gun is too tight, but I cock it, then lift it into my line of sight. This is totally fine. I’ve played Call of Duty. Fortnite. I’ll shoot him, and he’ll go all holographically translucent, and then I’ll skip away and get the 11:47 p.m. bus home.

St. Clare’s hands inch into the air. “I don’t have any money on me.”

Lies. He’s probably got money and guns and a pocketful of party favors. He probably lures women into his club before having his frisky way with them.

“Put the gun⁠—”

I pulse the trigger, first one going wide, but the second hits, and St. Clare drops to the ground.

The chick-et is quieter than I was expecting, and it takes me a second to realize it’s because my sharp cry drowned it out.

“Well, fuck.”

I should probably keep my voice down, but fuck. I did it. I actually fucking shot someone. This is the point where I pick up my shells, turn around, and walk the fuck away. It’s done now. No regrets. No worries.

Akuna Ma-ta-tas. Still weirds me out that Disney was singing about titties, but the message applies.

I turn for the street, half expecting a row of police officers with their guns out, and I’m shocked that no one heard that or reacted or seems to even care.

Shit. I think I just got away with murder.

I’m about to put the safety on the gun and tuck it back away into my pants before I make my getaway when a long, painful groan comes from behind me.

My heart sinks.

He’s still alive.

Because of course he is.

I turn my back on the street and head back in that depressing direction.

St. Clare rolls over as I reach him, bleeding heavily from the ear, hand pressed to it to stem the flow, breathing harder and faster than I was when I was following him. He might not be dead, but hey, I got close. A couple of inches to the left and he’d be trying to catch brain right now.

“Sorry,” I explain, torn between helping him with the bleeding or shooting him again. “I was aiming for your head. I’m not a very good shot.”

“Fuck you!”