he stared at you from across the room, the handgun glinting faintly in his grip. you hadn’t seen it at first—too focused on the way his voice stayed calm, too distracted by the way he always made lies sound like lullabies. it was his specialty. deception. manipulation. and now, violence.

he’d been lying from the start. like it was second nature. like it was built into his bones. and it worked. it always worked. until now.

because now you knew too much.

you had the truth. the evidence. the one thing that could clear john b’s name and burn his whole story to the ground. and he couldn’t let that happen.

he stepped closer, slow and deliberate, the gun still in his hand but lowered—just enough to make you question whether he’d actually use it. his eyes were cold. calculating.

“i think it’s important,” he said, voice low, almost gentle, “that my hand stays on your shoulder at all times.”

you didn’t move.

he kept going, his tone tightening. “and if it leaves… you’ll be dead in five seconds. i will—i will kill you. alright?”

your breath caught in your throat. the room felt smaller. the walls closer. your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it.

he wasn’t bluffing.

you could see it in his eyes. the way they didn’t flinch. the way they didn’t blink. he’d made up his mind. and now, it was you or him.

you swallowed hard, trying to stay calm, trying to think. you had to get out. you had to survive. because if you didn’t, the truth would die with you.

and he’d get away with everything.