"My God, am I seeing things?"
The whispered question, laced with sheer disbelief, rippled through the huddle of saleswomen, each one convinced their mind was playing cruel tricks. Their hearts, which had been pounding a frantic rhythm moments before, now seemed to have seized entirely, suspended in a terrifying moment of impossibility. Their eyes, wide with a mixture of terror and awe, were fixed on Issac Monroe.
He stood there, perfectly still, his right palm extended outward in a serene, almost casual gesture. And before his open hand, suspended precisely one inch from his skin, hung the bullet. The very projectile that had ripped from the g*n's barrel, moments earlier destined for his heart, was now frozen in mid-air, as if it had struck an invisible, impenetrable barrier. It could no
