The world stopped. Not metaphorically, not the slow-motion of adrenaline—it actually stopped. Cole's finger was frozen on the trigger, his arm extended, his pistol aimed at the figure in the doorway. His father's face was pale in the dim light, his hands raised, his palms open and empty. The gunshot still echoed in the air, the woman's body crumpled on the ground between them, her blood pooling on the concrete in a dark, spreading stain.
Cole couldn't breathe. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and copper, the metallic tang of fresh blood that coated the back of his throat with each desperate gasp. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a rapid, irregular rhythm that seemed to echo through the silence. He could see his father's eyes, dark and tired, fixed on him with an
