Third round, bridge of the nose.
He folds straight down, knees first.
Hits the ground hard.
Face slack.
Blood blooming slow.
Silence except the tavern bass across the street.
I stand over him. Chest heaving. Gun still up.
Three seconds.
Four.
Five.
My hands don’t shake.
They should.
They’re supposed to.
First kill outside the job, outside the lines, outside anything that resembles moral cover, and my pulse is steady.
Too steady.
I look down at him and wait for something human to spark.
Fear.
Regret.
Guilt.
Nothing.
Just a cold, clean click deep in my chest. A lock sliding open.
I realize I wanted this.
Not the kill.
The cut.
The line snapping.
The moment I stop pretending I’m anything but what Juliet already sees.
I’m not horrified.
I’m… relieved.
Relieved it’s done.
Relieved it was easy.
