Then he lifts the gun and slams the butt of it against my father’s head.
The sound is sickening.
Wet.
Final.
Something inside my chest twists violently, but I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
I can’t.
Anton watches carefully, like a man verifying his work. He reaches down, grabs my father’s wrist, lifts it slightly, and lets it drop.
The hand hits the armrest.
Lifeless.
Empty.
Anton nods once.
Satisfied.
That’s the moment it becomes real.
My father is dead.
And the man who killed him is standing three feet away from me like it means nothing.
I should move.
Hide.
Reach for something—anything.
But my body refuses to obey.
Rooted.
Frozen in place, not from fear—but from the sheer impossibility of what I’m witnessing.
Anton doesn’t even look toward the door.
He doesn’t check.
Doesn’t hesitate.
His confidence is absolute.
He isn’t worried about being caught because in his mind, he already won.
He turns, walking toward the shattered window as if he owns the room now. As if this has always been his.
For a fraction of a second, the cold wind lifts his coat, carrying snow into the office, scattering it across blood-stained floors.
Then he steps onto the balcony and disappears.
Gone.
