I heard the click before I felt the burn. Reflex—pure instinct—I turned, and the world lit up red. Shoulder caught fire. Thought for a second it was the end… guess not. Guess I still had one more second left in me.

The bar went quiet. Funny how fast a room full of noise can turn into a tomb. Guy’s eyes—wide, scared. He didn’t expect me to still be standing. Neither did I.

It’s strange, you live your life knowing the street’s got its rules. You take, you lose, you win, you die. I always figured when my number came up, it’d be quick—clean. But here I am, bleeding all over a place I used to laugh in.

The kid’s outside somewhere—Calogero. Probably heard it. Probably thinkin’ I’m dead. Maybe I should be. Maybe this is a warning from the big guy upstairs: Slow down, Sonny. You ain’t bulletproof.

But the thing about pain… it reminds you you’re alive. And I still got one arm, one breath, one chance to make things right.

He dropped the gun when he saw I was still breathing. Rookie mistake. His hands were shaking, eyes darting like a rat trapped in daylight.

I pressed my hand to my shoulder—warm, slick, pulsing. Pain like lightning down my arm. But I was calm. There’s a peace that comes after the bang. You stop thinking about tomorrow. You stop thinking about anything except now.

I picked up the gun. He started talking fast, words tripping over fear—something about how it wasn’t personal, how he was told to do it. They always say that.

I looked at him, really looked at him. Could’ve been anyone—a face from the neighborhood, a kid just trying to prove he’s tough enough. I remembered the first time I held a gun. Remembered how it felt to think power lived in your hands instead of your choices.

He was shaking. Crying, maybe. And me? I just sighed.

“I could kill you,” I said. “Right now. Nobody’d blame me.”

He nodded, like he already accepted it. Maybe he even wanted it.

But I didn’t pull the trigger. Not that night.

I turned away, pressed my jacket tighter against the wound, and walked out. The sound of my own heartbeat louder than any applause.

Somebody once told me every man gets two lives—the one before he learns what death feels like, and the one after. I guess this is my after.