A N D E R
As a kid, Ander remembered feeling like a watched pot.
In a house that was too big for him, and his father, there were multiple moments where he had to run away from the monsters in the dark.
He recalled the constant unsettling sense of threat, how through some silly efforts, he'd ensure his back was never to the demon and dash for his bed as soon as the lights were off. He'd give the unruly monster no chance to catch him.
Tonight, it was different.
He wasn't sure who his nightmare was this time, his exhaustion from a stressful long day or an enemy lurking in the shadows. His intuition said the silence foreshadowed a bleak future, and he didn't doubt for a second. He could feel someone's eyes on him, though he couldn't figure out what it was—a genuine threat or some lazy drunk spying through their peephole again.
Helpless and unsighted, he turned around once more in hopes of finding someone behind him and getting rid of his anxiety altogether, but all that he did find was darkness and silence.
The last time his neighbourhood had been this quiet, he had lost the only sane person in his building to a bullet, and the hush had been the dreadful consequence of the petty murder. He couldn't help but worry if he would be the reason for the silence tonight.
He walked along the dark corridor, stumbling through the random packages and garbage bags outside the doors. Over the three years he'd lived here, he'd learned not to disturb the darkness. The quieter and faster he moved, the better.
At his threshold, he twisted the keys into the lock, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut. He shook the feeling aside, pushing the door open, but the gate refused to open past a few centimetres.
Something was blocking the entrance, and Ander was alarmed immediately.
He took a few steps back. Wishing to retrieve the knife from his back pocket, he moved quickly. But his arms were immediately sized by a firm grip. "What? Fuck—"
Panicked, he struggled, but someone pushed him against the wooden door. The side of his face hit the surface with a loud thud, and the door swung open. Whoever it was, let him go and shoved Ander inside his apartment. The door shut behind him with a bang.
"Fuck," he was staring into the eye of the darkness, but when the lights turned on, he was almost blinded. He breathed in, slowly looking around.
In his living room stood Seth Quinn.
He attempted to get up from the floor, but a foot pressed into his back. He went down easy. He didn't recognise the man who was intent on being violent, but he had a feeling who he was, most likely some big player's man. If they were here, it meant two things. Either they knew he had been snitching or— "Enjoying the extra money at our expense, Ander?" Yeah, they knew.
"Nghh," a familiar voice spluttered gibberish in the background, and it caught his attention. Ander's chest relaxed with relief. It was Marco. Sure, he was in the corner, held by another familiar man, but it was Marco. He was alive and well.
Amongst the strangers, he recognised the face: Ben. The tall and brawny man stared at him with a dead expression as his bald head shined beneath the lights. He looked annoyed at the struggling Marco.
He wasn't a friendly man, but in the past, he had been civil to Ander. It seemed like a fair enough bet to approach him, "Ben, I don't know what they're talking about—" he started, but a kick at the side of his stomach interrupted him. Holding back a groan, he continued, "I wasn't the snitch. Come on, I've delivered everything on time. Never took orders from anyone but you. How could it be me?"
Ben took a moment to observe before he let Marco go. His fingers reached behind, and Ander waited patiently, but when a gun emerged from his back, all of his confidence disappeared.
"Stand up." The man ordered, and with shaky legs, Ander complied.
The gun swung between his fingers, and Ander's heart dropped. He wasn't sure how excelling he was at gun safety. If that accidentally fired. . . someone was going to die. He couldn't let it be him or Marco.
"One of you is lying," he tsked, his gun pointing back and forth between Seth and Ander. "Hmm, but who?"
"Not me!" Seth cried, and Ander bit his tongue. He had clearly underestimated him. What looked like a petty drug dealer with no resources turned out to be one with enough connections to hunt him down.
"It's not you?" Ben questioned, his eyes set on the dark-haired man, "I'm gonna be generous tonight. I'll ask for one last time. Is it, or is it not you, Ander?" He threatened, and with a gulp, he shook his head.
"Not me."
"Very well, then I guess we have a liar."
"No! My source is trusted—" a gunshot interrupted him, piercing a hole in his shoulder. Seth's eyes widened, a shrill cry escaping his throat as he hit the ground. Blood spilt all over the furniture, tainting the floor with crimson.
With a horrified gasp, Ander backed away a few steps, but the second man rounded him immediately, holding his arms tight behind his back. He struggled anxiously, fearing the inevitable death. This is it; this is the end.
"Still, not you?" Ben smirked, and the fear-stricken snitch was seconds away from accepting his demise. His eyes darted to Seth. The distressed groans pained his ears as the man continued to struggle and writhe on the floor. "No reason to let you live, either."
"Wait, wait!" He panicked, and though his tense eyes met the curious ones, he had nothing more to say. He had already tried lying, and as a consequence of that, someone was dying in his living room.
Fortunately for him, someone banged on the door. He had grown accustomed to those repetitive raps, two gentle ones and then one loud bang. It was his landlord, the old grumpy crank. He knew she would start yelling if he didn't open soon.
"Send her away," Ben ordered to his man, and he left Ander alone before answering the door. He tried listening to what she had to say, but with the gun swinging at his face, the conversation went like a blur. He could hear her yelling at a distance and the man helplessly trying to reason with her.
He noticed the badminton racket behind the couch. He looked away quickly in order to not draw suspicion. He looked at Marco then, whose weak body was struggling to get up, but if he could look at him once. . . just once.
With a frustrated sigh, Ben stepped forward. He slid the muzzle along the side of Ander's face and knocked the cheekbones with the handgun. With trembling hands, the snitch looked away.
"Two days, for old times' sake," the big burly man tsked, "You give me a name, or you'll end up worse than him." With a grin, he pointed to James. The wounded man's movements had slowed down. He laid still, though he was still breathing.
Relief rushed in his chest at the lenient man. He didn't want this to end in a fight; Ander knew he would lose.
The men walked away then, shoving the old lady aside, who didn't miss the chance to peek in. She noticed the dying man on the ground and, with a gasp, left without another word. It wasn't uncommon for crimes to happen in this building, and the woman wanted anything but trouble by getting involved. She was too old to let it become her business.
Ander hurriedly locked the door behind them and, panicked stared at the two men on his floor. He went to Marco first; he looked exhausted. "Where the fuck were you?" He hissed at his friend, and the blond man groaned.
Clutching his head, Marco sighed, "I don't remember most of last week. I was in some sort of basement with this guy," he pointed at an unconscious Seth, "I think he was asking about you. . . I suppose I gave in at some point. . . fuck, man I'm so sorry."
"It's alright." He sighed in response and leaned against the wall. "We have to leave."
He knew the day would come sooner or later, he wasn't making enough money at his job at the diner, and he had been taking as less delivery jobs as possible. He would be out of that apartment soon enough, yet this felt unfortunate.
"What are we supposed to do with him?" Marco coughed, regaining his breath. He looked weary but was concerned about the man on the floor anyway. Seth's breath had slowed down. His chest was still moving, but Ander was afraid he'd die of blood loss.
"We should drop him at the hospital."
"No way! He has a gunshot wound, they'll call the police." He had a fair point, but Ander couldn't leave the man behind. If he died, his death would be on him. No, I can't let him die.
"It'll be fine, come on. Hold his legs."
With a regretful sigh, he called Jamie.
It'd be the last time he bothers her, he promised himself.