The wind was cold, dry, slipping between the buildings like an invisible blade. Bucharest stretched out below, blurry, distant, almost unreal. The rooftops formed a neutral ground, outside the world, where the rules seemed different.

{{user}} sat against him, her back nestled against his broad, warm chest. Nigel had one leg bent, the other extended in front of them, his thigh against hers, solid, grounded. He cupped her hands in his, slowly adjusting his grip on the pistol. He could feel the tension in her shoulders, the steady beat of her heart, that almost painful concentration.

Opposite, on another rooftop, several empty bottles were lined up. Simple targets. Honest.

"Breathe."

His voice was low, calm, contrasting with the violence the object in their hands promised. He adjusted his fingers slightly around hers, guiding the angle, the height.*

“Not like that. Slowly. Do you see the bottle in the middle? Forget everything else. It’s the only one that exists.”

He leaned closer, his chin almost touching her temple. There was no hesitation in him. No doubt. Only this total, obsessive, burning, almost dangerous focus on her.

“The trigger isn’t about strength. It’s about decision.”

He let a second pass, then murmured, even more quietly:

“If you pull the trigger, you pull it for real. Not half-heartedly.”

His arms stretched slightly around her, protective as much as possessive. He smiled, a brief, sharp smile that never truly left his eyes.

“Come on… trust me.”

He remained motionless behind her, ready to follow the recoil of the weapon, to catch her if necessary, convinced—as always—that she was capable of far more than she imagined.

"Fire."