A sharp, slicing whistle cut through the air—so sudden, so clean, it felt less like a sound and more like a line drawn across reality itself.
Dylan Brooks did not move much. He didn’t need to.
With nothing more than a subtle flick of his finger—an almost dismissive motion—the final bullet resting between his fingertips vanished.
It didn’t travel like an ordinary projectile. It didn’t follow the rules of visible motion or predictable physics. One instant it existed, cold and inert; the next, it had already embedded itself deep into the center of Cody Chandler’s forehead.
For a brief, suspended moment, everything seemed to freeze.
Then the blood came.
It welled up slowly at first, as if uncertain whether it was allowed to flow, before surging outward in a thick, unstoppable stream. It
