Sell out

 The rain was relentless, a cold slap against the city’s bruised and broken skyline. High-rise skeletons loomed over neon-lit gutters, indifferent to the endless procession of down-on-their-luck nobodies and suited somebodies all trying to claw their way up. They had more in common than they thought. In this town, the higher you climbed, the further you had to fall.

Charlie Grayson leaned against his window, nursing a half-drained glass of bourbon and watching the city wash itself in greasy puddles and cheap tricks. He was a criminal lawyer, but tonight he felt more criminal than lawyer. And that bourbon wasn’t doing a damn thing to wash it away.

Charlie’s office wasn’t the high-rise kind with floor-to-ceiling windows and million-dollar views. No, his was on the third floor of a squat brownstone that hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since his secretary wore saddle shoes. It had the kind of peeling plaster and dusty shades that discouraged visitors. But Charlie’s clientele didn’t come for the atmosphere. They came for a man who knew his way around the dark alleys of the law. They came for someone who could get them off the hook when they had too much blood on their hands.

And that’s why Hank “The Butcher” Russo had come to him last month.

Russo was the kind of man mothers whispered about to their children when they wanted them to behave. A sadistic gangster with a string of violent extortions and rackets that left half the city trembling, Hank had a way of turning deals into bloodbaths. And he’d finally landed himself in a mess too big for even his oversized ego to handle. Russo needed Charlie like a drowning man needed air.

But this time, Charlie was tempted to let him drown.

It started with a call. A Detective Walker, thick with suspicion and barely hidden disdain, wanted a “chat.” Cops in this town knew better than to ask questions, and Walker was no exception. But there was something in his voice, an edge that told Charlie he had something different this time. Something big. “Got a witness,” Walker said. “One who saw The Butcher do something unspeakable. Thought you might want to know before I toss him in the slammer.”

That was Walker’s play—the worm on the hook. And Charlie bit. Before he knew it, he was at a grimy diner on 44th, face-to-face with the cop who’d spent half his career trying to pin him to a crooked deal.

Walker leaned back in the booth, a smirk on his face that would’ve been infuriating if it weren’t so goddamn familiar. “I hear Russo’s your client now.”

“Rumors get around fast.”

Walker shrugged, his fingers tapping a lazy beat on his coffee cup. “Funny thing about rumors—sometimes they’re dead-on. So here’s the rub: your pal Russo’s been on a tear, and my boys are itching to pull him in. Thing is, you might know more about his business than you’d like to admit.”

Charlie met Walker’s eyes. He could lie—he was good at it, after all. But with Walker, there was no point. “Maybe. But knowing and saying are two different things.”

Walker’s grin widened. “I’m giving you an out, Charlie. You know what Russo’s done, and we both know he’ll do it again. You help me, and I’ll make sure you don’t get your hands too dirty.”

Charlie didn’t give an answer that night. He wasn’t sure he had one. But when he went back to his office, Russo’s file felt heavier than it had any right to. He poured another drink, the amber liquid swirling like some answer just out of reach.

The next morning, Russo walked in, big and brash as a bear. He was dressed sharp as a blade, but there was something in his eyes—something feral, something that didn’t belong behind a suit and tie. He didn’t sit. Instead, he loomed over Charlie’s desk, hands pressing down like he was about to flip it over.

“They’re breathing down my neck, Charlie. I need to know you’re on my side.”

Charlie nodded, almost mechanically. “You pay me to be on your side. And I am.”

Russo’s lips curled. “Good. Because I got plans. Big ones. And if you play your cards right, you’ll have a fat payday and a little more sway in this town.”

That was it. That was the line, the one Charlie had been edging closer to for years. He looked at the stack of files, the photos, the testimony that would disappear into the ether if he played this right.

Or, he could go to Walker. He could end it here, save whatever was left of his soul by doing something for the city he’d been bleeding dry for years.

That night, he went to Walker’s office, under the pretense of negotiating some deal. But the minute he stepped in, he felt that vice grip tighten. Walker wasn’t one for small talk.

“So you’re here to do the right thing?”

Charlie dropped Russo’s file on the desk, his eyes dark and flat. “The right thing’s a myth, Walker. But maybe this is close enough.”

When Russo was cuffed, screaming curses, Charlie watched from his office window. He watched the city lights dance in the rain and let the bourbon burn away whatever shred of decency he thought he’d lost. In the end, he’d informed on his client. But he didn’t feel righteous, or even relieved.

Just hollow.

Because in this town, there were no heroes—only survivors.