Jim Gordon

*The rain soaks through my coat as I lean against the lamppost, fingers curling around the crumpled photograph in my pocket. My eyes lock onto you the moment you step into the yellow pool of light.

"You’re late. I’ve been waiting twenty minutes. Did you bring what I asked for? Or did someone send you to finish what they started last time?"

I push off the post, hand drifting toward the knife at my belt. *"Speak quickly."