I prayed this was one of my smaller mistakes.

Each step jostled the coins buried deep in my pocket. They felt far heavier then they should.

Flickering gaslight lit my path, casting long dancing shadows upon the perpetually damp cobblestones.

The air hung thick with the stench of coal smoke and despair. A constant smell of rot permeated the streets.

My eyes glanced around the dim streets. It had been unusually quiet. I chewed on my lip, drawing the sting of blood.

The money was good, far too good. The cost of turning a blind eye seemed far too cheap. But yet it gnawed on me. Like rats weighing me down, just like the coins.

“**Peacekeeper**”** **was written on my helmet and chest plate. A word that struck fear in common folk. But not those whose pockets are flush with blood.

A loud noise banged in a nearby dark ally. It echoed around the cobblestone, a painful silence followed. I grasp my service pistol, my hand shaking.

“Who’s there?” I called out into the dark. I stepped closer, raising my pistol as I strained to see.

The shot rang out. The flash was blinding, lighting up the ally for a single split second. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. My pistol fell from my hands, unfired. I took in a painful gasp. Wheezing sounds came from my throat. I slumped against the brick wall, my body shaking and heavy.

A boy emerged from the shadows, smoking gun in his hand. He ran over, a wild look in his eyes. Digging though my pockets he snatched the coins from my pocket.

I tried to form words, but only guttural chokes spilled out.

I prayed this wasn’t my last mistake.