The diner was quiet.

Old jazz whispered from the jukebox in the corner — tired notes from a record that had been played too many times. The waitress looked like she hadn’t slept since Tuesday. Coffee tasted like it came from an ashtray.

It was perfect.

John Manna sat in the last booth by the window. Black coat. Gloves on. Hands around a cup he hadn’t touched. He wasn’t there for the coffee.

He watched the street.

Some guy had been hanging around the newsstand too long. Shoes too clean. Jacket too big. Could’ve been a tail. Could’ve been nothing. John watched anyway.

Eventually, a man stepped through the door. Mid-40s. Nervous. Wore his panic in the way he looked at the floor. He slid into the booth across from John without a word.

John didn’t look at him.

“You’ve got three days,” he said.

The guy nodded quick. “Yeah, I know. I will. I swear. My guy just didn’t come through and—”

John raised his eyes.

That was enough.

The guy shut up, stood up, and left. Still muttering to himself.

John stayed. Let the silence settle again.

Didn’t rush.

Sometimes, words worked.

Three days came and went.

No envelope. No call. Not even a whisper.

Manna gave him time. More than he should’ve. Figured maybe the guy was slow, maybe scared. But scared people still show up when they’re supposed to. This one didn’t.

He found the apartment without much trouble. Second floor over a pawn shop, blinds drawn, door lock barely hanging on. There was no movement inside, just the soft hum of a fridge working too hard and the smell of old takeout.

John let himself in.

The place was a mess. Dishes in the sink. Paperwork scattered across the table. A coat tossed on the floor like the guy left in a hurry or stopped caring. Either way, it didn’t look like he was coming back.

John didn’t search the place. Didn’t need to.

He tore a small piece from a notepad in his coat and wrote two words.

Too late.

Left it on the table, under a cold cup of coffee.

Then he stepped back out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.

No rush. Just another walk down the stairs.

Rain had started coming down again.

Turns out the guy didn’t run far.

Couple days, a quiet favor, name dropped in the back of a bar no one talks in. Someone spotted him near the rail yards. Not hiding. Just laying low. Thought he was smart. Thought he blended in.

He didn't.

John waited until just before dawn. That hour where the streets are dead and the wrong kind of people are up.

Third floor walk-up, one-room flop. Thin walls, busted heater. Mattress on the floor. Suitcase half-packed. Door barely locked. Guy was already rattled when Manna stepped inside.

“You took a walk,” John said.

The guy froze. Sweating already.

“I—I didn’t mean to. I just needed more time. My guy didn’t—”

“You had three days,” John cut in. “You took six.”

“I was gonna call—”

“You weren't.”

Silence.

“I didn't tell anybody. I swear to God.”

“I believe you.”

That was it.

John drew the pistol from his coat smooth, like he'd done it a hundred times. Probably had. The guy didn’t move, didn’t even flinch — just stood there with his mouth half-open like he still thought there was a chance.

One shot to the chest.

No yelling. No mess.

The guy folded backwards like the strength left him all at once. Collapsed against the wall, then slid down slow, eyes still blinking like he was waiting for the rest of the conversation.

There was nothing else to say.

John stood there a second. Checked the room. Quiet. Clean.

John sat for a minute after. Lit a smoke. Stared out the window at the yard.

Then he flicked the cigarette out the window, gave the room one last look, and headed for the door.

Didn't slam it. Just pulled it shut behind him.

No cleanup. No calls.

It was done.

Nobody found the body right away.

Landlord probably wouldn't notice till rent was late or the stink got bad. Maybe some strung-out junkie would try the handle first. Either way, Manna wasn't losing sleep over it. He'd been clean, quick, and quiet. The kind of job you forget by the time your coffee goes cold.

Guy was already gone the second he broke his word.

Manna walked a few blocks, gloves in his pocket, then dropped them in a storm drain like yesterday's paper. Caught a cab on 7th, told the driver nothing but the street. Rest of the ride was just rain tapping the windows and the hum of the city trying to sleep.

Back at the office, he poured two fingers of something decent, sat down, didn't drink it. Just looked out the window like there was something worth seeing out there.

He gave the guy time. Gave him chances. That was more than most got.

After a while, he picked up the phone. Dialed slow.

“Yeah,” he said when they answered. “It's done. He's not a problem no more.”

Short pause.

“Nah, he didn't say nothin'. Kept it shut all the way.”

He hung up. Lit a smoke. Watched the cherry burn down quiet.

Another name off the list.

Another fuck-up cleaned up.