You lean back in your chair, eyes flat.
“Didn’t find it. Took it.”

The hooded figure stiffens, gloved hand tightening on the bag’s edge.
“From who?”

You glance at the broken clock on the wall.
“Bald man. Gray coat. Funny limp.”

The figure’s jaw tightens.
“That’s impossible. He’s dead.”

You slide your revolver onto the table, the metal scraping softly against the wood.
“Yeah… he was.”

The figure’s breath catches. Their hand slips from the bag, trembling slightly.

You wipe the dried blood off the grip with your sleeve.
“You still want it?”