The man—a mid-level bookie named Carl Voss—was on his knees. His expensive suit was soaked through, clinging to him like a second skin. His hands were clasped together, trembling.

Carl's voice pitched higher, cracking. His eyes darted to the mouth of the alley, searching for a savior that wasn't coming.

Carl Voss stopped begging. His breath hitched. He stared down the barrel, his face slack, the realization finally settling in.

And then, from the entry of the alley, a slow, deliberate clap. Three, four, five times. The sound was almost mocking, cutting through the rain.