Author: CuongH Mr

Part 1   The entire auction hall burst into arrogant laughter when Lot 47 was dragged onto the stage. It was a rust-covered Aston Martin that looked like a compressed cube of jagged scrap metal. The auctioneer leaned into his microphone, flashed a greasy smirk, and loudly declared it dead on arrival. I stood quiet…

Part 1 The heavy oak door of Harper’s gun shop rattled as she walked in, the brass bell chiming a cheerful note that didn’t fit the sudden freeze in the air. A jagged, angry scar ran from her left temple straight down to her jawline, puckering the skin and pulling the corner of her mouth…

Part 1 The car sat in the far corner of the high-end Manhattan auction hall like something nobody had bothered to throw away yet. Dust covered the hood in a thin, gray film that smelled faintly of old gasoline and damp basement air. The paint had blistered and peeled along the dented fenders, and the…

Part 1 The rusted-out gate at the back of my rented cottage had three sworn enemies: freezing rain, November mornings, and me. I shoved it hard with the heel of my palm, listening to it screech open like a stubborn toddler losing an argument. Every damn morning began exactly like this. I walked down the…

Part 1 The dismissal hung in the air thick and sour, like stale smoke. I stood inside Cash Flow Pawn, my gaze fixed on the weapon behind the dusty glass case. It was a piece of my soul trapped behind an eighty-dollar price tag. “It’s just an old bolt-action, Gramps,” the young man behind the…

Part 1 At eighteen, Marcus Cole had forty-three dollars, a frayed duffel bag, and absolutely nobody in the world expecting him to survive the winter. The state of Virginia had officially washed its hands of him, reassigning his group home bed before his paperwork was even dry. He spent three weeks sleeping against maintenance sheds…

Part 1 The October wind bit hard across the Texas Panhandle, carrying the bitter scent of dry wheat stubble and impending ruin. I stood on the weathered porch of our farmhouse, my hands buried deep inside my late father’s canvas jacket. The sleeves were rolled up three times just so my fingers could peek out….

Part 1 The apple trees were dying, and Mabel Jackson knew exactly who to blame, even if she couldn’t prove it yet. For two long years since Robert passed, the orchard yield had dropped, the west field turning into a soggy, rotten marsh every time the autumn rains hit. Nelson and Briggs, the local land…

Part 1 The air in the interrogation room smelled of burnt coffee and cheap floor wax, a stagnant scent that made my stomach churn. I stared at the metal table, watching a single bead of sweat track slowly down my forearm, leaving a pale streak through the dried crimson flaking on my skin. Across from…

Part 1 The mahogany desk in the West Wing library smelled of stale lemon wax and a century of dead men’s secrets. I shouldn’t have been under it, but six-year-old Lord Leo was curled into a tight, trembling ball, his white cotton nightgown stained with soot. His throat clicked, a terrifying, dry rattle that signaled…