The Beretta rose in my hand, smooth, practiced.
The cold barrel pressed against his forehead.
He broke.
His entire body jerked violently, like a wire pulled too tight. Sweat beaded instantly across his brow despite the biting cold, sliding down his temple in uneven streaks.
His eyes widened, pupils blown so large the color nearly disappeared.
For a second, I saw how cornered he was—how terrified, how desperate to live.
He thrashed against the restraints again, as if some desperate miracle might still set him free.
His boots scraped uselessly against the rock, the sound sharp in the silence.
A strangled, panicked sound forced itself through the tape over his mouth, vibrating against the adhesive like something trying to claw its way out.
Begging.
I held the gun there.
Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Let him feel it.
Let him understand.
Time stretched, thick and suffocating, each second dragging like a blade across exposed nerves.
The wind roared around us, but up close—this close—it felt like silence.
Just his breathing.
Fast. Broken.
Fear had a rhythm.
And I made sure he heard his.
Then, slowly... deliberately...
I lowered the gun.
Not to his chest. Not to his heart.
To his thigh.
His entire body sagged.
Relief hit him so hard it almost folded him in half. His shoulders dropped, a weak, broken exhale forcing its way past the tape as if he’d just been handed back his life.
I watched it happen.
Watched hope crawl back into his eyes like a disease.
A smile touched my lips.
Thin. Sharp. Merciless.
