I adjusted my grip and aimed at his right upper arm — already torn by the earlier shot.
I pulled the trigger.
The second gunshot echoed.
The bullet ripped clean through muscle tissue, exiting in a burst of red that splattered the wall behind him.
His arm dropped immediately.
Useless.
He tried to raise it — failed — and instinctively grabbed his bicep with his left hand.
Blood coated his fingers in seconds.
A sharp hiss escaped him between clenched teeth.
His legs trembled harder now.
The thigh wound leaked steadily.
The arm wound poured.
He slid down the wall — slow at first, then uncontrollable — until he collapsed onto the marble floor with a heavy thud.
He didn’t curl up.
He didn’t beg.
He sat upright instead, legs splayed awkwardly, back resting against the wall, breathing ragged and shallow as blood pooled beneath him.
The crimson spread outward in dark concentric rings.
His gaze never left mine.
Even through the pain. Even through shock setting in.
“Enough,” he said quietly.
The word wasn’t directed at me.
It was directed at escalation.
I lifted the gun again.
Muzzle steady.
This time aiming at his forehead.
“You deserve nothing less than death for everything you’ve done to me.”
Two sharp cracks detonated from above.
High-velocity rounds slammed into the wall inches from my head.
Plaster exploded in white dust.
Stone fragments ricocheted across my cheek.
