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[Dymm Crowley]

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Darren sat behind his desk. There were dozens of documents sprawled across it, illuminated by the light of a candle. He scribbled furiously and muttered to himself though he was quite alone.

He was working on selling some property. He had had a deal with a young aristocrat, Blake – spoiled and what Darren called “bratty.” Darren was Blake’s elder by many years but he was treated with no respect. Finally, he could not take it any more. He knew Blake’s family was wealthy but it was not worth dealing with them to sell the property.

And now he was stuck behind his desk for the rest of the night, fighting through the bureaucracy of selling property in a big city. He signed his name more times then he could remember. He used to practice his signature because he wanted to make sure it looked professional and elegant and, most of all, intimidating.

Darren was not poor but he was also a long way from rich and though he would never admit it, this is what made him miserable. It’s what made him hate people like Blake so much.

Darren’s signature was perfect now. The commoners he mostly sold to (and mostly disliked) were generally impressed by it. The aristocracy, however, did not notice.

It was late at night now. It must be well past midnight but Darren continued to work while everyone else slept. He must have been surprised, then, to hear a knock at his door.

It was three solid raps of a knuckle, slow and reverberating. Darren looked up from his papers and to his door. His eyes were red with sleep deprivation and his limbs felt like logs. He stood up and walked slowly to his door. He hoped it was something important. He did not appreciate having his time wasted.

He opened the door and was greeted by nothing more then a solid sheet of black. It was so dark out that he could not see three feet in front of him. He wondered briefly why the streetlight was out but the thought was quickly pushed out of his mind for a better question: Who was at the door?

He looked around but it was no use. The only illumination was from the fireflies, lighting up in luminescent green occasionally and randomly…

They annoyed him.

What else annoyed him were hooligans that knocked on doors and ran off in the middle of the night. Feeling agitated, he closed the door and just as he was about to turn and walk back to his desk, he heard a noise outside.

Maybe he’d get those kids after all.

He opened the door back up and stepped outside. It was pitch black and he held his hands out in front of him to feel for where he was going but he felt nothing.

He saw the fireflies again - at least two at any given time, lighting up a small amount of space but not enough to be of any use. He swatted one away and it fell to the floor, dead. Its light slowly faded to black.

He started to walk toward where he had thought he heard the sound. He walked through the darkness, his only sense of direction coming from watching where the fireflies were. The lights went on and he could see them… then off and it was as if they had disappeared and then reappeared a few seconds later, in a different spot.

One landed on his arm and he swatted it off. It flew away, unlit, and disappeared.

He walked toward where he thought it flew. He was far from his office now and he couldn’t see much. He walked swiftly now. Each pace was one step closer to his destination.

And then, he saw the fly again, right in front of him. It lit up and Darren saw that it illuminated something else this time: something shiny. He stopped dead in his tracks and the fly disappeared.

When it lit up again, all Darren saw was a smirk and a long-brimmed hat.

A desperate cry broke through the silence of the dark, empty streets.

The fly lit up. Blood. It disappeared.

The fly lit up. A card. An ace of spades. It disappeared.

And it was gone.