Dream pulled the mask over his face, clipping it around the back of his head. He was hidden underneath and old rusty car, and it stunk like spilt oil. Scrunching up his nose in distaste, he adjusted the gun in his arms. It was the size of his entire arm, and should've been deadly- but there was only one bullet left. One bullet, to save his life- it was like being stabbed in the back but with a numbing agent. Useless, not helpful. Maybe there was hope though. Maybe.