The relentless rain had a rhythm—like a thousand tiny drummers beating against the pavement, echoing Daniel's heartbeat. Each step he took seemed to drag him further into the storm, further away from everything he once knew. The streets were slick, the world around him a blurry smear of lights and water. It didn't matter. He wasn't running from the weather. He was running from something far worse.

His mind raced in frantic circles. He had made a deal. A bad one, a deal with the devil himself—Salvatore "The Butcher" Mancini. Two weeks ago, Daniel had been a man who went to work, lived paycheck to paycheck, dreaming of a better life. Now, he was a man on the run, a man with nothing left to lose but his life.

Sal had promised him something simple. A favor. An easy job, a little money, and everything would be fine. But Sal's favors always came with a price, and this one was steep. That "easy job" had spiraled into a bloody nightmare. Daniel had made a split-second decision—fleeing with a bag of money that wasn't his. And now, the Mafia was after him. The Butcher didn't let go of debts, and Daniel had made himself the prize.

But running wasn't going to work. Daniel knew that. You didn't escape the Mafia. Not when they had your face. Not when they had your scent.

He needed a plan. He needed a miracle.

The flashing neon sign of the bank gleamed ahead, an oasis in the storm, promising hope—or at least a chance to survive.

Daniel had been here before, passing by this very bank countless times on his way to work. Now, it felt like the only option, the only way he could get the money he needed to disappear, to buy time, to start over somewhere far, far away. He knew the risks. The security, the alarms, the people inside. But nothing mattered anymore. 

He paused for a moment at the entrance, rain dripping from his clothes, pooling around his feet. His hand shook as he fumbled for the gun tucked in his coat pocket. It was cold, unfamiliar, and felt heavier than it should have. His fingers tightened around the cold steel, the reality of what he was about to do sinking in. This wasn't him. This wasn't who he was. 

But desperation has a way of changing a person.

He pushed open the door with a quiet creak. Inside, the warmth hit him like a slap, the contrast to the chill outside making him dizzy. The smell of fresh paper, polished wood, and too many perfumes assaulted his senses. The soft murmur of voices filled the air—people waiting in line, tellers smiling with rehearsed politeness. 

Everything felt normal. Too normal.

He stepped further inside, keeping his head low. His heart was a drumbeat in his chest, so loud that it drowned out everything else. 

His eyes flicked to the security guard by the front desk. He was old, disinterested, staring down at his phone. Too easy.

There were two tellers working, both focused on their customers. There was a long line of people, none of them aware of the chaos about to unfold. Daniel's breathing quickened. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

He reached inside his coat, fingers brushing the cold barrel of the revolver. It felt wrong. But he couldn't turn back. He had no choice.

The gun came out with a swift motion, a sharp click that sent everyone inside the bank into a state of panic. The sound was deafening, but the silence that followed was even worse.

"Everyone down!" Daniel shouted, his voice trembling despite himself. He aimed the gun toward the ceiling, not trusting himself to point it at anyone just yet. 

The chaos exploded. A woman screamed, a man cursed, and the bank's visitors scrambled to the floor in panic, trying to get out of the line of fire. Daniel's eyes darted across the room, trying to control his shaking hands, to maintain some semblance of authority. He had no idea what he was doing. 

"Don't move," he barked, his voice unsteady, louder this time. "Everyone on the floor. NOW!" 

The tellers froze, eyes wide with fear. One of them, a younger woman, started to get up, her hands trembling as she reached for the panic button under the counter. Daniel's gaze locked on her, and he instinctively pointed the gun toward her. 

"No," he muttered, the word more of a whisper than a command. He didn't want to hurt anyone. But Sal's men had shown him what happens when you failed a job, and Daniel had no intention of dying today. 

"Get the manager. NOW," Daniel demanded. His voice was stronger this time, desperation pushing him forward, the gun's weight grounding him to the present. 

The bank manager came rushing out, her face ashen, hands in the air, eyes darting between Daniel and the terrified crowd. "What do you want? We can help you…"

"I need cash," Daniel spat. "Enough to disappear. You have ten minutes. Do not make me ask again." 

His mind raced. The vault. He needed the vault. He didn't know how it worked, but there had to be money in there. Enough to run, enough to disappear before Sal's men found him.

The manager nodded shakily, turning toward the back. "I can open it, but please, don't hurt anyone. This isn't the way."

Daniel didn't respond. He didn't need to. Every second that ticked by felt like a countdown to his own death. His hand gripped the gun tighter, knuckles white, as he moved closer to the vault door. He had to get inside. He had to make it out alive.

The manager spoke to someone over the intercom, his voice tense, barely audible. 

Suddenly, the door behind the vault opened. And there, standing in the hallway, was another figure. A tall, dark man in a black suit. His gaze locked on Daniel's in an instant.

"Drop the gun," the man said, his voice smooth and deadly.

Daniel's stomach churned. His pulse skyrocketed. The Mafia's enforcers. Sal's men. How had they gotten here so fast? He hadn't even heard them come in. 

It didn't matter. There was no way out.

Daniel's mouth was dry as he stared down the barrel of the man's gun. For the first time in his life, he felt truly helpless.

In that moment, he realized: He wasn't running from the Mafia anymore. He was running from himself.