Echoes of betrayal

The rain hammered down in relentless sheets, soaking the solitary figure standing before the dimly lit bookstore. Water streamed off his coat, gathering around his boots as he stood motionless, eyes closed, face tilted slightly upward, savoring the storm's music. The world around him seemed to fall away, his breath a slow exhale before he pushed open the door. The soft chime of the bell rang faintly, almost tender, against the raging downpour outside.

"Welcome," the bookkeeper muttered without lifting his gaze from the ledger, the words barely breaking the quiet.

The figure paused, his eyes lingering on the bookkeeper for a moment longer than expected. A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips. "Thank you," he said, voice soft yet deliberate, carrying an undercurrent of something darker, something unreadable.

Without waiting for a response, he moved past the shelves, his presence blending into the shadows. He found an empty chair at the back of the store, pulled down a book, Endless, its cracked leather cover a testament to time. As his fingers traced its worn edges, his stillness was unnerving—more like a statue than a living man, absorbed in the world within the pages.

The hours stretched on in silence until the sound of soft footsteps broke through, hesitant yet hopeful.

"Excuse me, sir," a young girl said, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "Do you have any books on betrayal? For a school project."

The bookkeeper blinked, startled by the intrusion, before nodding slowly. "Betrayal, huh?" His voice was gruff, as though the word itself left a bitter taste in his mouth. "Let's see what we can find."

The girl followed him as he led her deeper into the store. The figure at the back of the room shifted in his chair, his gaze flicking toward them momentarily. His eyes seemed to penetrate the aisles, watching their every movement, before he leaned back and resumed his stillness.

Eventually, the girl found her book and, with a quick, nervous smile, thanked the bookkeeper before disappearing into the night. As the door clicked shut, the bookkeeper locked it with a deliberate, almost final sound.

Reaching beneath the counter, the bookkeeper retrieved a small handgun, slipping it into his waistband with a metallic clink. His keys jingled as he turned toward the figure still seated in the back of the room. His posture was rigid, a subtle tension in his movements.

"Closing time," the bookkeeper said, his voice flat. "Come back tomorrow at seven if you need anything else."

The figure didn't move. Instead, his voice, calm as the eye of a storm, cut through the air. "Before you lock up, sit down. We need to talk. Father and son kind of talk."

The bookkeeper's brow furrowed in confusion, his lips tightening into a thin line. "What do you mean?" His voice betrayed a flicker of unease, a crack in his otherwise stoic exterior.

"Old mistakes," the figure replied, his head tilting just slightly, as though carefully choosing each word. "And Maya."

The name fell like a stone, sinking deep into the bookkeeper's chest. His breath hitched, eyes widening as a flicker of recognition flashed across his face. "Who are you?" His voice was shaky now, strained with disbelief. "How do you know that name?"

The figure leaned back in his chair, his gaze never wavering from the bookkeeper. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in the room thickened with each passing second. "Think back. Coyote, eight years ago. You recruited a dying kid. Does that ring a bell?"

The bookkeeper's hand shot instinctively to his waistband, his pulse quickening as recognition struck. His breath was shallow now, his voice rough as he spoke the name. "Nash."

The figure's smile spread, cold and unsettling. "It's good to see you again, old mentor."

Greg's hand moved to his gun with lightning speed, drawing it and leveling it at Nash's head. His face twisted into a sneer, a venomous smirk playing on his lips. "You should've stayed buried. Stayed in the shadows. Never come back."

Nash's expression remained unchanged, his eyes calm but piercing. "Who are you protecting?" His voice was quiet, but there was a dangerous edge to it, a steel hidden beneath the calm. "Who's worth betraying me over?"

Greg's jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightening with rage. "You dug too deep. You knew too much. They feared you. You were a liability."

Nash's voice dropped, cold as the wind that howled outside. "You could've warned me, Greg. You could've told me they wanted me dead. All my pain—my torment—could've been avoided."

Greg's lips curled into a bitter laugh, but his eyes flickered with something like guilt, or perhaps regret. His finger tightened on the trigger, the weight of the moment bearing down on him. "Sorry, kid, but it was either you or my real family."

"Real family, huh?" Nash's voice cut through the air, low and devastating. His gaze never left Greg's, but there was something in his eyes—something that made Greg falter for just a moment. "Is that how you justify it?"

Greg's face contorted, a mix of anger and anguish flashing across his features, his hand trembling slightly as he tightened his grip on the gun. His voice was hoarse, raw with emotion. "You think this is easy for me? It's not. But I had no choice."

Nash's eyes softened just for a second, but the calm never left his voice. "Before you pull the trigger, Greg, do you have anything to say?

Who is it? Who's worth throwing away everything for?" Inquired Nash

Greg's face twisted in defiance, his eyes burning with unshed tears. "You'll never know. Not from me."

And then, with a final, almost imperceptible movement, he pressed the trigger.