Go Bump in the Night [Open]
He didn’t usually have trouble sleeping. He had his bad nights, of course, but none so epic as this. It was around four in the morning, he’d wager, and he was standing out on the street, having done little more than slid on a pair of shoes before going outside. The cool night air was refreshing against his skin, which had grown clammy beneath his covers; even still, he could find no peace.
There was usually an underlying reason whenever he couldn’t fall asleep. He suspected that this time it had something to do with stress, all the feelings that had built up in the last few weeks finally coming to a head. He was exhausted, yet his eyes stayed open and his brain whirred on.
He walked down the street a ways, hands in his pockets, and stopped underneath the pooled light of a streetlamp. Sighing, he dug out his little silver case and removed a cigarette. Upon trying to light it, however, he found that his hands were shaking too badly; he couldn’t get the damn lighter to ignite.
"Dammit," he muttered, shaking his hand out. Right. Deep breaths, try again. Right—
And that was when he heard them.
Footsteps. Footsteps in his direction, it seemed, and at that his heart leapt into his throat: it was four in the morning and he was alone and someone was coming toward him. Frantically he ran through a list of things that could result from this situation, namely his death.
Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself firmly, you’re in the mob. You’re packing. Except he wasn’t packing because he was in his pajamas and he had left his gun in his apartment and maybe the person coming toward him was with the Macini and fucking hell, he was going to die, wasn’t he?
"G-Got a light?" he blurted out to the shadowy figure, wishing he sounded more confident. Hadn’t he heard that establishing a connection with a possible attacker could make them less likely to hurt you? Wasn’t that a thing?
It seemed he was about to find out.
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