Tommy's ribs still ached from the last job, The deep bruises just a reminder of how close he'd come to getting his head caved in. But pain was something you learnt to live with in this business. It was morning now, the Sydney skyline barely peeking its way through the haze as Mick pulled up outside the rundown graffiti-covered building on the outskirts of town.
"Right kid," Mick said, killing the engine and flicking his cigarette butt out the window. "Time to see if you've learned anything, or if I'm wasting my goddamn time. You ready for another go?"
Tommy wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and glanced over at Mick. "As long as we're not dealing with more brick shithouses, I'm good."
Mick snorted, rolling his eyes. "Nah, different. Just a bit of cleanup work. "Blood in, blood out, you know?"
Tommy didn't know, but he wasn't about to admit that. Instead, he nodded, grabbed his jacket and followed Mick into the building. It reeked of piss, stale booze and something far worse that clinger to the walls. His stomach twisted, but he kept moving.
They made their way down a narrow, dim hallway, the flickering lights casting eerie shadows. Mick stopped at a rusted metal door, gave Tommy a once-over, then kicked it open without a second thought.
Inside was a mess, two blokes already down(dead), their blood painting the linoleum floor, and standing in the middle of it all, grinning like a lunatic, was Charlie. Tommy had seen him around—mean as a snake, always ready for a fight, and clearly enjoying this one a little too much.
"Jesus Christ," Tommy muttered, stepping around one of the bodies. "Did you save anything for us Charlie?"
Charlie laughed, wiping his bloody hands on his pants. "You want some kid? There's always more to go around."
Mick gave Tommy a nudge forward. "This is the part where you stop watching and start learning. Grab that pipe." He pointed to a rusted lead pipe leaning against the wall, already soaked with dried blood.
Tommy hesitated but did as he was told, his heart pounding as he felt the weight of the pipe in his hand. It was cold and heavy, like what he was about to do.
The moment stretched into silence, broken only by the sound of one of the half-dead blokes on the floor. Tommy looked down at him, his knuckles going white around the pipe. This was it—the real test. He had to prove to Mick, to Charlie, and to himself that he wasn't just some kid playing gangster.
"Do it!" Micks voice cut through the moment like a knife.
Tommy's mind screamed at him to stop, but his body moved anyway. The pipe came down with a sickening crunch, then again, and again. The mans groans faded into silence, leaving only the sound of Tommy's ragged breathing and the pounding of his heart.
Blood splattered across his shoes, and he felt it spray onto his face, warm and metallic. For a moment, the world narrowed to the dull thud of the pipe hitting flesh, the smell of iron and the sticky feeling of blood on his hands.
When it was over, Tommy staggered back, breathless, staring at the lifeless body at his feet. His stomach churned, but he swallowed it down, refusing to give in to the nausea clawing at his throat.
Mick clapped him on the back, a grim smile tugging at his lips. "Now you're starting to get it. Everyone wants to be tough until they realise what it truly takes."
Tommy wiped the blood off his face with the back of his hand, his body still trembling with adrenaline. "Yeah," he muttered, trying to keep his voice steady. "I get it."
Charlie walked over, giving the lifeless body a heavy kick. "Not bad kid, not bad at all, but next time, aim for the head. Less mess."
Tommy managed a weak laugh, though it felt more like a release of tension than anything else. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Good," Mick said, lighting another cigarette as if they had just finished a normal days work. "Now let's get the hell out of here. I'm starving."
As they left the building, the sun finally broke through the clouds, casting long shadows on the pavement. Tommy followed Mick and Charlie, the pipe still heavy in his hands, his mind racing with the reality of what he'd just done.
The blood was still on him, his clothes, his skin, but something inside him had shifted.
And there was no going back.