The alley was dim, the flicker of a nearby streetlight barely enough to illuminate the blood-soaked ground beneath him. He slumped against the cold brick wall, the sharp sting of pain radiating from the stump where his arm used to be. He had managed to tie off the bleeding, but it was only a matter of time before the blood loss would catch up to him. At least his crew had gotten away—he had bought them enough time to escape. He’d held the line, fought hard, but the cost had been steep.

His breath came in short, ragged bursts as he fumbled in his jacket pocket with his remaining hand, pulling out a crushed pack of cigarettes. One dropped, landing in the pool of blood at his feet, but he didn't care. His shaking fingers managed to get one between his lips.

The lighter was next. Old, dented, and reliable—usually. He flicked it open with a shaky thumb, but just as the flame sparked, his grip faltered, and the lighter tumbled into the crimson puddle. He stared at it for a second, disbelief clouding his face, then chuckled darkly through clenched teeth.

"Should’ve brought a flask instead," he muttered to himself, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grim smile as he leaned back against the wall. "At least then... I’d have something to warm me up."