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Wrong posture.
Too still.
Too calm.
He reaches inside his jacket.
I’m already moving.
No warning.
No hesitation.
Distance collapses under me.
I hit him hard—shoulder to chest, driving him back before he can clear the weapon.
The shot goes off anyway.
Too late.
Glass detonates behind us—shards exploding outward like shrapnel.
Screams rip through the room.
We slam into the floor.
He recovers fast.
Faster than most.
Trained.
Disciplined.
Not enough.
I trap his arm, torque it sideways—
Bone snaps.
The gun skids across the floor.
He doesn’t scream.
Doesn’t hesitate.
His other hand flashes—
Knife.
I drive my elbow into his throat.
Hard.
Precise.
Final.
