There were no sparks from the roof tiles, only a hollow gunshot from the opposite side. He was still in the school, hadn't changed positions, but I couldn't see his location either.
An invisible pressure surged through me like a tidal wave. I felt as if a pair of eyes were fixed on my direction, on my position, ready to deliver a fatal blow at any moment, making me too afraid to even peek out.
I crawled around in the trench for a while, changed positions, took a few deep breaths to calm my fear, and then mustered the courage to slowly peek out with my gun and my head. Through the scope, I carefully observed the school across the way—windows, door cracks, broken glass—searching over and over again for every possible hiding place, for every possible trace he might have left behind.
He was
