Room 304

It was dark. A cold wind blew in the Burgues street. It was totally empty except for a few stray dogs whose howls pierced the flow of air.

Burgues street was famous for two things. Its lively oil market during the daytime, filled with the hustle-bustle of tourists and the shopkeepers trying to con them. And during night time, old apartments, made in the late 19th century, filled with criminals, junkies, and pimps. Even the police force thought twice before sending their men individually for patrolling there.

They went to the place only to get the bribe money, which they took to hide the reality from the world, where everything was good. But none of these mattered to Michael, as he knew everything beforehand. He had seen it all with his eyes. Coming here was like coming to a second home.

But today was different. He came walking into the street, although limping, he was as calm as a fox. His steps on the silent street sounded like a mistimed clock. He took his wallet out and read the small piece of paper which said, “Olly Sins. B 406, Burgues street. X.’’

He quietly analyzed the street for building B. As soon he saw the neon lights of wing ‘B’ falling over his face, he went towards it. He walked past the door and stood right next to the fire escape stairs. In a wolf hair trenchcoat and a dark shiny fedora, his grey hair and wrinkled skin shined under the moonlight. He took the final puff of his cigarette and twisted it under his shoe. He took out his gun, a Colt .45, and in no time, fitted the silencer to it. He slid it in the back waist of his jeans and put his right leg on the emergency ladder of the building, sighed and started climbing. A sound of a few steps came from a distance as he started to put his other leg on the ladder. The sound intensified with time. It was coming from the street, from where he came. The steps coming towards vibrated his ears. He stopped. Stood straight towards the wall and loaded his gun.

Michael’s “goodbye” ray was no new to all this.

Now 72 years old, he may not have that swiftness but still, it wasn’t his first time on the streets of Paris. He knew that shit could go down any time here.

He cannot afford to be seen by anybody. Everyone knew everyone there. If they catch you doing something nosy, there is no chance that you’ll be going out of Burgues street alive.

Standing there, he waited for steps to approach towards him and when they did, all he saw was a drunk woman with a guy who looked like a dealer, ‘pocket dealer,’ as they used to say. He saw both of them passing by, not noticing him, towards the other building as they were quarreling on something regarding 'fairyland.’

As they went a few steps further, the quarrel started to get louder. She spat on the guy who knocked her down with a blow on her face. She screamed at him as the guy kept beating her and calling her with ‘futur fu’- it was something that Michael could hear clearly.

People started coming out of their buildings. He knew it could escalate quickly as the police might come there anytime on issues like this, or even that guy who looked like a pimp could have been a policeman.

It was risky, so he started climbing again towards the floor of room 304. He had no time to waste either. When the way became, clear he started going up the emergencyn ladder. With a fractured leg, it was difficult for him to climb up towards the building, but he did not stop. Without wasting much time, he reached the window on the third floor. He just wanted to go up there do his job and leave that place, as he did 40 years ago.

He felt a sense of relief as the first step of his mission was crossed. He took out the revolver and loaded it with a magazine. Then he kissed his cold steel gun, just like he used to before.

During his time, the ‘mission’ used to be much easier as the confusion was less and the 'chickens', as he used to say, were easy to track. Being a hitman, he used to be a professional impersonator, as that was a prerequisite and kept him alive all these years. He knew what to do and when to do, whenever he was given a task to kill someone. He made sure that the person’s name comes in the next day’s obituary column. He had it all, brains and power, whatever it took.

But this wasn’t the same time. 40 years later, after his retirement from this business and living a normal life of a family man, he was back to the basics, from where he started. But this time it was personal.

The wind on the floor was much cooler and rapid than that on the street. He was at the exact timemand exact place, as given by his informer Louise, who always signed as X.

He gave him the address paper and told him to get there by 11 and it was 11:03, he looked on the ticking needles of his watch.

Although he wouldn’t completely trust a new guy, the 10k he gave to Louise was a real seal for the deal, he believed.

No one believes the man of a word like they used to do in his time, only the numbers written on Euro notes mattered. He took out the paper to confirm the room - 'a painting of fire and ice by the door.’ He checked it from the balcony and it was there.

The balcony door was wide open, allowing winds to blow back and forth, so fast that, the paper swirled from his hand and sailed down towards the street. It was of no loss as he had knowledge of everything on that paper. But the face of his victim, he didn’t know.

'Olly Sins,' the guy who was a master hitman and Michaels’s target, was like an enigma. Even the informant wasn’t sure how he looked like, was he white or black! All he knew was his address, as Louise was once asked to deliver a package to his house by the men of Don Eric Bordeaux, which was consisted of information about Olly’s “assignment”.

The Other and the most important thing Michael knew about him was that Olly was the man behind the death of Michael’s only son Jimmy. Jimmy was the reason why he was standing outside a balcony with a gun in Burgues street, after all this time.

He wanted revenge, plain and simple. Michael opened his shoes and put them on the balcony floors, as it was his ritual during his mission. After killing his “chickens,” he used to put on the shoes and leave. While he walked slowly towards the living room, he heard steps coming from the street but that was none of his concerns.

As he moved inside the apartment from the balcony he took out his gun, moving by the walls of the living room, slowly approaching the bedroom. There was a voice coming. It was his chance.

Although it took more effort than it used to before, he burst open the door. As the door swung open, he saw that the voice was coming from the tv and the room was empty, except a bed and about a thousand pieces of used cigarette butts. Olly wasn’t there.

He was sure that Olly didn’t know about him coming, he knew it was something else. He went into the bathroom for any sign of his identity, there were just a few stick-on papers over the mirror with names written on it. Michael didn’t find his name but he knew some of them.

Loius Clot, who was the reason behind Michael’s limping, was a loan shark. Another familiar name he saw was Marcus Dion, a drug supplier, who once was Michael’s dealer too. Micheal remembered those days when he used to take snort, every time he killed someone, just to forget about it. After that, he used to go to a local casino to gamble all he had. It was his everyday chore, there was no way out.

It was all the same, until the day he met Delilah, the only love of his life and his wife for thirty- seven years till a few months ago when she died of cancer.

All the names, written on the notes, had a history but he didn’t have anything to do with them.

All he wanted was Olly and he wasn’t there.

Michael stood there, waiting alone at a hitman’s apartment, a hitman whom everyone feared but no one knew, a hitman whom Michael wanted to kill and avenge his son’s death. He knew if Olly wasn't there yet, then he could arrive anytime.

He looked at his watch, half an hour had passed. The only sound in that room was of his watch ticking with every step, each second. That sound and the sound coming from down the street.

He came towards the bedroom, from where he saw the pimp still beating the shit out of the woman, as the police approached the scene.

“Police! Police!”, she cried as they came towards the pimp. Everyone else was watching the show, some on the streets, some from their windows, and so did Michael.

He wasn’t interested anymore. He moved towards the bedside table, where he saw a torn out paper. ‘Michael. X.’ Just these two words were written on a small piece of the paper. But those were enough to make him aware that Louise has double-crossed him.

He knew he was in trouble.

The cold wind kept blowing from the grills of the bedroom. For a second, he stood there thinking about what could be his next move. Since the fire escape was on the back street and now that it was covered by the police and the bystanders, he couldn’t get down there.

Even if he tried, at seventy-two years of age and a broken leg, he couldn’t run that far. He moved towards the bathroom-window grill and checked if he could cut and escape from there. But he didn't have the tools for that and it wasn't in the ’30s when the grills were loosely locked.

To break through the grill was a plan, but an impossible plan. It was an unintentional ambush, he thought, as this apartment was utter trash. Or was it cleverly planned! He couldn't find out. The police sirens were wailing in the street. As the sound became profound, he started getting confused. He put his gun on the bed, sat on a chair next to it, and took out another cigarette. It was the one he used to smoke after executing his plan. But right now, he was exhausted enough to fire it up. He wanted to calm down but the police sirens down the street weren’t helping either.

He couldn't process it all. He wasn't the guy anymore, he used to be 40 years ago. It was easier then.

He leaned on the chair, the light went off. It was all dark. He stood up in haste. It was painful with a broken leg. He could feel his thighs crushing his knee as he walked, but he had to.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. ‘Was it Olly?’ He carried his pistol and moved vigilantly towards the living room. Tiptoeing in his socks, he hid behind the door. The key looked to be jammed, as the person on the other side was trying to pen it.

“Mother... fuck, open! For god’s sake!” On hearing this, Michael was confused as the accent sounded French. Louise had told him that he was an American. But whom could he trust? 'A real assassin can carry any identity,' he thought to himself.

With a click sound, the door finally opened. It slowly moved with screeching a sound towards

Michael while he was waiting for this person to come inside. As he put one foot forward, he caught the guy by the neck with his right arm and closed the door by his left. The other guy was also furious. Although Michael’s grip was strong, the guy started hitting him with his elbow on the abdomen.

The light came back.

Micahel fell down on the floor as the guy stood up and looked in his eyes. The boy looked skinny with blond hair and hazel eyes, and a chiseled jaw. His eyes showed something, a feeling of shock. He was surprised to see a man in his 70's with a gun in his hand staring directly at him.

Silence surrounded the room. The sirens could still be heard from the window of the apartment’s lobby.

Micahel, while lying on the floor, pointed the gun at that boy. "You'll pay for your sins, you son of a bitch!"

Surprised, he put his hands up in response, as he started to sulk. Michael stood up, the gun still pointed at him, "Are you American?" He wanted to make sure that this was the right guy, that

this was Olly Sins, the guy who killed his son, not some guy from the streets who would piss in his pants on seeing a gun.

"Please don't kill me," he said, while shaking, in French accent. On hearing that, Michael got sure that he wasn't the guy he came for. But where was Olly then! He wanted to know.

Michael put the gun on his head, holding it against his forehead.

"Who are you and where the fuck is Olly?" he screamed at the already terrified boy.

“I’m-I’m Marc," the boy said in a very thin voice in French.

"Speak in English, mother-fucker!" Michel lived in Paris for a long time but didn't care to learn French. His job was to make people silent, he didn't care about what they spoke.

"My name is Marc, Marc Juvios. I work for Mr. José.”

Jose! Michael knew that name very distinctly. Jose Marques was the guy Michael worked for 40 years ago, after which he suddenly quit the job. He was also the guy Michael killed 2 hours ago in the main city. He was the guy who ordered Jimmy’s death 2 months ago by the hands of Olly.

He was the guy because of whom Michael was standing in the middle of a room holding a gun at the temple of some guy he didn't even know.

Michael took the gun away from Marc's head and limped towards the sofa by the window and sat on it.

"Then why the hell are you here? What's the reason, boy?” He dropped his gun on the table and looked through the window. The street was still filled with bystanders and four policemen, one of whom was tying handcuff on Pimps hand while the other one was showing a photograph to the people on the street.

Michael was clueless. Was that his photograph?

It could be his as the chef at Jose's house saw him walking out clearly.

"The money, 1000 francs. I came here to give Olly Sins the cash," Marc said in broken English.

Michael was in some different space, thinking about how the night changed in a matter of hours. Marc's voice pushed him back to reality.

"Money for what? And what's between you and him?” Michael looked at him thoroughly.

"I don't know him. I just come here every Friday night to put this envelope on his table. He is never here and I have never seen him."

Michael’s head went down. "Well, that makes two of us."

Micheal, still with his eyes on the street stood up. It was painful but he did.

"If you have never seen him, then why have you come here to shoot him?"

Michael chuckled, looking at Marc and limped towards him.

"Well, I don't think I owe you an answer! You can go if you want. I have to end this tonight, for good." Michael took the gun from the table and put the silencer back on it.

Marc stood there watching him.

"I don't think you can see him here until next week."

These words caught Michael’s attention, "What do you mean?"

"Olly Sins, the guy who lives here, the guy you want to kill, won't come here till next Saturday. That's what my boss told me."

Michael was stunned. His head started to shake as if it would explode any second, "That fucking son of a BITCH!!"

He screamed with all his might. He started looking around like a mad child and moved towards the television and began hitting it with the butt of his silenced revolver. The TV screen got shattered in small pieces and some of it pierced through Michael’s hand. It started to bleed.

Marc didn't know how to react to this. He took out the handkerchief from his pocket and went towards Michael who now sat on the table where the TV was before it fell down on the floor.

Marc tied the handkerchief on his hand and Michael gushed in pain but didn't say anything to him. He started sobbing like a toddler, "I'm sorry, Delilah," a sentence he kept repeating.

"Don't worry, monseigneur. If you could not do what you came here to do, someone else will.

The god knows and will do justice.”

In a blank state, Michael looked at him in the eyes. "It's all over. It was my last job and I failed. I failed you, Jimmy."

He put down his head and stood up from the table towards the balcony. "Just open the door and we both shall go from here," Michael asked Marc in a voice filled with tears, dropping on each other, creating the only sound in the room.

"Okay, I'll do that monseigneur. Well, what's your name?" He asked Michael as he went to open

the door. Michael was at the balcony, wearing his shoes while looking down at the street. He had an attentive look. The policemen were moving with a speaker in hand, speaking something in French.

"My name? You will know that by tomorrow if you read the newspaper. And what are these guys screaming on the speaker?" He replied to Marc who was still trying hard to open the door.

Marc stopped. He started to listen to the sound coming from down the street.

"He is in his late sixties, wearing a grey jacket, an American. He is dangerous and a killer. He was seen coming in this area. If anyone saw him please contact us, you’ll get a reward." He repeated each word in English to Michael, who was now in his own deep thought. 'How would he get out!'

"It's not opening," Marc said to Michael and kicked the door, still nothing happened. The sound on the street went louder. He looked Michael in the eyes, moving towards him, step by step.

"What will we do now?" Marc started to look worried, Michael put the gun at the back of his denim with plaits all over and went running towards the balcony. The cry of the policemen still continued on the street.

Michael knew he couldn’t go down from the fire escape, the place he came up from, as the police were still there, waiting for him.

The main door of the apartment, leading to the other side of the room was the only way to escape, but that was locked. With him, Marc also looked as shocked as Michael was.

Michael ran towards the door and tried hard to open it. He didn't have that much power but tried to pull it open with all his might.

After a few seconds, he stopped. He was old and tired.

"How did it get locked, this fucking door?" He sat down by the door, silent.

"Because of the key, mister," Marc now realized it. Michael was intrigued.

"When you pushed me, the keys were still stuck on the knob from outside, which I believe is still there." Marc continued and Michael sighed.

"Then we must find a way out. There is still something I need to do. Jimmy’s girl, my granddaughter, Mellisa, need to give her this." He put his hand in the pocket and took out a ring, a ruby ring shining brightly in the darkness that bestowed that room.

Marc wasn’t paying attention as he was busy finding something and went into the bedroom.

"Did you hear me, young man?" Michael amplified his voice this time.

"Oh! Here it is!" Marc exclaimed.

There was a joy in the way he said it. Michael was curious and he followed the voice towards the bedroom while putting the ring back in his pocket.

Marc was sitting on the left side of the bed, connecting a radio phone.

Michael sat beside him, still in curiosity.

"It's a new machine, a radio walkie talkie." He took out the antenna from the phone, "It is given in every apartment of this area to order from Eiffel cafe down the street. If we would order something then the delivery guy can open it for us." He started to smirk as he looked at Michael, who looked astonished.

“What if he gives my name to the police?”

“Don’t worry. Almost every guy, working there, knows me."

Marc was dialing something on that walkie talkie. "Hello?"

The person on the other side of the device also answered.

"Bonjour Monsieur. Cafe Eiffel, what would you like to order?"

Marc looked at Michael who just shrugged. "One pizza. Room 304, B building, Burgues street."

He ordered in French. Michael was impressed by his dialect.

“You can switch to another language really fast.”

"That's why Mr. Marques kept me as his messenger here in Paris. He says I’ve got this talent."

Michael knew what Marc meant by that. "It's good. I advise you to do something productive out of this talent of yours, else it’ll get wasted."

Marc gave a nod.

Marc went towards the window gaping down from it. The policemen were taking the pimp out of the street in the car, as few men came and started shooting at the police car.

He jolted back.

"Is it a shootout?" Michael asked as he sat on the floor with a polaroid picture in his hand.

Marc rushed and sat with him, "Looks like one, but nothing new here."

"You said you only come here on Friday, so how are you familiar with how this place runs?"

Michael sounded suspicious but his mind was still at the picture he was holding.

"Well... It's something I have seen from childhood. Although I was born to American parents, the streets of Paris made me what I am today." Marc replied as he also looked at the picture.

It was a picture of a couple with a child of about 3 years old. The smile of the man on the picture matched with the one on Michael’s face that very second. His eyes started to get teary.

“Can you do me a favor?” Michael asked him.

“Yes, tell me,” Marc replied with uncertainty as he waited for Michael’s answer. Michel, in return, took that ring out again.

“I might not be able to make it out of here today. Even if I leave this building, the police are after me. Can you give this ring to Melissa, by any means? It is meant to be transferred to her.”

He looked at Marc with hope in his gleaming eyes.

Marc didn’t know how to respond to that.

"If you don't mind me asking, what's up with this picture, monseigneur?"

Michael looked at him, thinking. He took a deep breath and said, “This picture?"

Marc nodded.

"It is the reason I came here, boy. The reason why the police are announcing my name on that speaker and because of this, we both are stuck in this room. A long story that I can’t tell now."

He wiped the tears falling off his eyes. He took a pause and put the ring back in his pocket.

"Well, tell me. We have quite a time until that guy from the cafe comes."

Marc looked curios but was also not sure about the temper of the old man sitting beside him.

"My son Jimmy. He was like a blessing. It's the picture of him when he was just 3 years old." He pointed at the kid held his father’s arms as if he would never let it go.

"I missed his 3rd birthday and came back from Paris that very day after quitting this business, just to capture this moment." He continued.

“It was a moment that changed me forever. I gave up this job of taking lives and started to care for life. His life. I started looking for work that gave me something in exchange for honesty and

not being a sadist killer. They used to call me back for the job, this motherfucker, your boss Luigi and his father Jose were amongst them."

Marc was stunned, he didn't know what to say. He just kept looking at the picture in Michael’s hand and shook his head. Michael then put the picture back into his jacket and took out the gun, resting his forehead on it.

"It's sad what happened to your son. Hope he is in peace now.”

The only sound, that surrounded the room, was silence.

"You know I left this thing 40 years ago so that I could find peace." Michael showed the gun to

Marc's face.

"But it was today that I really felt that when I put those bullets in that son of a bitch, I will find peace."

Marc stood up, trying to process what he said. "So you killed Luigi!! That's why the police are searching for you?" His eyes were widened and he took his steps away from him.

Michael chuckled.

"You are talking like he was some saint. He deserved it, every single bullet I put in his body were his due. Luigi was a fucking satan, and I was his disciple, killing whomever he asked me to.”

Marc leaned towards him, his hands on Michael’s shoulder, “You can’t change what has happened. Just go back and take care of your grandchild.” He smiled at Michael who looked at his arms which had names tattooed on various places.

“Look at you, giving me life lessons. But son, even my experience is more than the times you’ve celebrated your birthday. Anyway... These names you’ve got inked on you remind me of

something”

Marc wasn’t getting what this old man was trying to mean by his words, “These are just names of my friends, the ones I have a connection with.”

Michael opened the first button of his shirt and showed some faded dots on his wrinkled skin over the chest.

“You see these small dots, they used to be detailed back then. Like you, I also tattooed these for the people, but not my friends or the ones I love, the ones that I’ve killed.”

Marc was surprised to see how those points, about 30-40, had made a big black spot over his chest.

“Don’t you regret seeing them now?” he asked in an interrogative way.

“Everyday,” Michael replied, buttoning back his shirt. “But not after today. After avenging

Jimmy’s life from Luigi and that bastard Olly Sins, it would be complete, like a circle of death.” he continued as he stood up, loading back his gun.

Marc was speechless, seeing the fire in Michael’s eyes. He stopped for a second and raised his head.

“How did your son die?” he asked without hesitation.

“What do you mean?”

“The reason Luigi ordered your son’s death, what was it?”

“He took revenge for his brother’s death, Keno. He was a sweet young boy. I was assigned for his security when I left the job. I went to America to see my family and the rival gang killed his brother two days later. I never heard from or saw Luigi after that until today. But people told me that he would come. He came, like a snake, killing my son, my only child.” His voice began to get heavy.

“Don’t you think the way your son was killed, god give him peace? How many mothers did you make childless? How many wives did you turn a widow into? Don’t you think your son paid the price for your sins and so did your wife and your grandchildren?”

Out of control, Michael pushed Marc and pointed the pistol over his forehead.

“Kill me then, kill me and end this. If it makes you happy. If you think I’m wrong. But here, right at this second, you have two choices.”

“Choices?”

Michael was clueless as to what he was saying. He still didn’t take the gun away from Marc’s forehead.

“Either you could wait for that Olly guy to come and kill and avenge your son’s death, after which, the police down the street, announcing your name on loudspeaker, would kill you and end some leftover years that you have. Or we both can wait for the pizza guy to come and open the door, you could leave from the other side, where there is no police and you can take the next flight back to the States and spend time with your grandchild. No murders, but the peace would be there.”

The wind outside started to get violent and entered the room. Michael was shivering out of the cold.

“Look at you, telling me to become Gandhi here, you don’t understand.” He said as he looked on the verge of breaking down.

He pounded Marc with the butt of his gun.

“I can’t go back home. This was meant to be a suicide mission. There will be a check post for me in every corner of France. I don’t have any shit with me, no money.” He screamed at Marc who was on the ground, panting.

“You can still go,” Marc said as he tried to get up.

Michael shrugged and gave Marc his hand to stand again. He was bleeding from the hit. Michal looked at him in the eyes.

“I am sorry for this. It was just the rage.”

Marc chuckled.

“Well, I am sorry that I bothered you.” He moved past him towards the table by the door and picked the packet that he came with. Michael watched him with a confused look on the face.

“Here take it, all 1000 francs.”

He handed the packet with money to Michael, whose hands were still shaking and the face was

still.

“What is this?” He asked.

"This is enough for you to go back to your granddaughter. There is a ship that takes illegal immigrants to the States every Saturday morning. It will leave in 3 hours. The port is just a few meters away from here. You can see it from this window.”

Marc put his hand on Michael’s shoulder and moved him towards the window.

“See that over the red building. That’s Le Harve port. The ship will arrive in an hour there.”

Michael threw the gun on the floor as tears fell from his left eye. He gulped his throat, trying not to cry.

“W-Why are you doing this?” He showed the money which Marc handed to him.

“This was meant for Olly. But I think he owed you this, a lot more than this for what he has done. Grudge is a heavy thing to carry. Maybe this would lighten some load off him.” He smiled at Michael, who took a deep breath and brought his hand towards Marc, “Thank you, son.”.

“Marcol! Are you inside?” There was a knock on the door.

“He is here,” Marc said stretching his neck.

“Does he know you, the delivery guy?” Michel asked with a faint smile.

“Open it, dummy. The key is on the lock idiot!” Marc exclaimed towards the door.

Michael picked the gun and put it back in his inner coat pocket.

The sound of the key moving through the door brought relief in the room. The door opened, as the guy, with a French mustache in his Early 20’s, was standing with a pizza in his hands. He waved at Marc who also waved back.

“Finally you came, brother,” Marc hugged him.

“I won’t come here every time, you should do something about this door problem, Marco!”

Michael was putting the money in his pocket as he looked at Marc, who gave him a smile. All

three of them got out and walked towards the stairs. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Take this pizza. I’ll meet you tomorrow.”

Marc gave the delivery guy the money, who then ran down the stairs.

After he went away, Marc helped Michael, stepping down the stairs. On the way to the ground floor, he kept looking at Marc as there was something he couldn’t understand until they reached the exit door of the building.

“Finally.” Marc sighed.

They were now down the building on another side of the street, where there were no policemen and the sound of sirens faded. A heavy vibrating sound was coming from down the street.

“You hear that sound,” Marc pointed at the end of the street. There was a big steel structure that covered the view of the ocean, it was the ship. Michel looked at it and gave a nod.

“I think it’s time we bid farewell, Mr. Michael,” Marc said to Michael.

"Good luck, young man. And sorry for this,” he pointed at his head, which had a blue blob on it.

Michael shook hands with Marc. Marc stood there watching Michael go. He didn’t think much and started to move down the street towards the port.

“I never told him my name.” His forehead contracted with confusion, as he finally took the handkerchief out of his hands. “Maybe I have told him.” He turned and looked at Marc, who smiled at him waving goodbye. He waved back with his hand in which he had the handkerchief.

He continued to walk as he noticed something. It was the handkerchief. He saw the initials on it, ‘O.S’, embroidered on its corner.

He stopped, turned and walked back towards Marc, who looked surprised, “What happened?”

Michael didn’t reply. He put his hand inside the coat and took out his gun pointing at Marc.

Marc stood still.

“Here, take it. I can’t take it on the ship. Can I?” He rolled the gun in the blood-soaked handkerchief and gave it back. “Hope, we never meet again.” Michael took a deep breath and walked back towards the ship.

Marc watched him go with tears in his eyes, and a smile on his face.