The city trains you to not notice things.
I mean, you’ve seen the hobos, the hookers, the lunatics having entire conversations with empty space… or have you? When’s the last time you actually stopped to take full stock of your surroundings?
She was walking home with one earbud in and one dangling over her worn, brown coat – a thrift store find. She kept the volume just low enough to hear the traffic as she passed through crosswalks. Bag clutched tight in one hand, the soles of her feet burned from an already active day of working the floor at the last department store in town.
The streetlights were buzzing and flickering, the two things you’d hope street lights wouldn’t do when you need them.
She always passed three alleys before reaching Middle Street. The dark and narrow, spoil-scented passages rested between brick buildings. Archaic tenements.
She passed the first without looking. Why would she? There’d be nothing in there that a respectable woman would want to see.
(Had she looked, however, she would’ve seen the dark figure with the white face.)
The second alley was disregarded in the same manner as the sound of far-off sirens demanded her attention.
(This time, the dark figure stood closer, light illuminating the crude “7” scrawled on his face… or was it a mask?)
She may have caught him out of the corner of her eye by the time she passed the third alley, but she didn’t register him. Not really. He was just a tall, black-clad shape leaning half out of the shadows. His expressionless visage, definitely a mask, staring forward and not tracking her movement at all.
Her brain must’ve filed it under “Let’s Not Think About That” in order to keep her legs moving.
That’s when footsteps fell behind her. Slow and measured, but drawing closer despite the sparse sound of each shoe drop. The feet belonged to legs much taller than her own.
She stopped.
The footsteps stopped.
She turned, heart already trying to escape through her throat. She instinctively reached for the pepper spray in her purse, only then remembering she had used the last bit on a handsy drunk outside a bar three nights ago.
“Fuck.” She muttered under her breath, back still turned to the man who was definitely following her.
Without missing a beat, she turned, holding the spray as if it was filled to the brim with searing pain just waiting to be released into the eyes of some oafish bastard.
“Just don’t.” She warned.
He was a few feet behind her… too few feet behind her… standing under a street light as if he were any normal busker looking for the attention of passersby. No threat in his pose, no intent in his stance, no weapon in his hands.
He was relaxed. Casual. Sinister in his lack of obvious motive.
Palms up, he held out his hands.
She didn’t move an inch. Her phone was in her pocket, but it might as well be a block away. In the time she took to grab it and dial, what would he do?
“There’s no cash in my purse,” she made sure to lay it on thick, “My cards are all but useless at this point. The only thing you’ll find in there are embarrassing feminine products, and I’m sure you’re not interested in those.”
Wrapping one hand into a fist, he placed it over his open palm. A purposeful, methodical signal whose meaning she couldn’t quite put her finger on, just yet.
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
He tapped his fist on his palm once, twice, three times.
She shook her head, concern giving way to confusion.
“Rock, Paper, Scissors?” She asked meekly.
He waited patiently.
The city was eerily quiet around them. No rumble of traffic. No distant shouts.
Against every shrieking instinct she had, she nodded.
“Okay,” she all but whispered, wide-eyed, “But then I must be going.”
His mask rose slightly, and she could tell it was now hiding a smile.
“Alright,” she instructed, “On three.”
They raised their fists.
“One… two… three.”
She picked rock. A tight fist, knuckles white around her spray bottle full of bluff.
He chose scissors.
The masked man nodded, head tilted slightly to the side, as if he was impressed by her foresight.
From his sleeve, something slid out into his palm with a soft thump.
He held it up.
A gem.
Red, faceted, catching the street light’s rays in ways that brought a touch of magic to its dank and crumbling surroundings.
He pressed it into her open hand before she could protest.
Her fingers closed around it on instinct. It was cold to the touch.
“I don’t…” she studied the gem for a moment, too perfect, to exquisite to be plastic junk, “I don’t understand.”
The masked man simply stood there, as still as ever, fist over palm once more.
She hesitated less this time. Her heart was still pounding, but something other than dread had crept in. Curiosity, tinged with a slight feeling of relief at the fact nothing had gone wrong just yet.
“Oh, I see. Best two out of three,” she said, “One… two… three.”
She chose paper.
He picked rock.
“Nice,” she smiled slightly, “Paper covers rock. I’ve never understood that one, but there you have it.”
This time it was a folded bill. Crisp. Authentic. One hundred dollars.
A full, honest-to-God grin found its place on her face.
“Aw, is it over now? That’s two wins.” she asked, before she could stop herself.
He tilted his head.
He held out his hands again. Fist over palm.
Her mind raced. Who was the benefactor behind mask? Was there a hidden camera just out of view, somewhere? Would this be a viral video by the same time tomorrow?
“One… two… three.”
Paper.
He picked scissors.
Very real, very shiny scissors. What should’ve been a pair of fingers became metal shears in the blink of an eye.
Quite the magic trick… and up-close, as well.
She didn’t even have time to scream.
The stab was quick. Precise. Practiced countless times. One fluid and decisive motion. Then another, just to make sure. Her winnings fell to the ground, gem hitting the pavement and rolling into the gutter, still shimmering with every bounce.
As she collapsed to her knees, vision blurring and phone in trembling, blood-drenched hands, she finally saw movement in her peripheral vision.
The first alley.
Then the second.
Two more men stepped out, identical black outfits, identical blank masks displaying three sevens in a row. They stood beside their partner, watching quietly.
They looked down at her as she fell forward, no more emotion in their eyes than a dealer watching someone gamble away their savings. The odds always favor the house. Eventually, you lose. The smart move is to never play.
Then, all three turned and disappeared back into their respective alleys, leaving the street almost exactly as it had been before.
Hours passed.
Two people walked by her body as she bled out into a storm drain.
Then five.
Then ten.
The city trains you to not notice things.
