It was that dream again.
The same damn nightmare that clawed into my sleep like barbed wire.
It always started the same—an open field at dusk, the sun bleeding into the earth, casting long, stretching shadows over rows of tall grass. The wind howled, cold and metallic. My boots were heavy, like they were shackled to the ground. I turned around, but the world stretched endlessly—no exit, no walls. Just me and the approaching storm.
And then I’d hear her.
A woman. Dressed in black. Her face always blurred, like smoke swirling behind a cracked glass mirror. But her presence was sharp—like knives gliding over my spine. She stood still, ten feet ahead, pointing a silver gun at my chest. Always the same gun. Always the same hand—steady, unshaking, like she had waited for this moment for cent
