Stats: Written: 2/19/18; Prompt: The Modern Typewriter; Time: 30 min. max – 10.30 min.

Prompt: “What is it?” The villain's voice snipped terse on the phone at being interrupted. Distracted.

The lackey squeezed his eyes shut, one hand clamped to the blooming patch of red on their side. He just wanted to hear that voice, really.

“What is it?” The man’s voice snipped terse on the phone at being interrupted. Distracted.

The young man on the other end squeezed his eyes shut, one hand clamped to the blooming patch of red on his side. He just wanted to hear that voice, really.

“Nothing, really. Just headed back and saw your favorite café. Did you want anything?” He tried to even out his voice, coughing a few times even to clear his throat. His boss didn’t need to know how much pain he was in.

“This late? I don’t think I need the caffeine.”

“Alright, just making sure. Is-“ The man laughed, cutting him off.

“No, I sent your girlfriend home around ten. No worries here.” Despite his irritation at the distraction, he leaned back in his chair. Unworried.

“I gotta go.” Without much of a goodbye, the young man hung up and limped away from the alley. He left his cell phone, in pieces, by the dumpster.

They’d be here for him soon.

While his student, practically graduated from his teachings, had never been particularly good at phone conversation, he never recalled him being so jittery on the phone. The young man had mastered hiding his feelings and intentions pretty well, but, as his teacher, he always saw right through him.

Suspecting something was very wrong, he attempted to call him back, but he only received a voicemail in response.

“Dammit.”