A single light flickers in the back of a quiet gas station. Inside, Anton Chigurh moves with deliberate calm.

He kneels beside the counter, wiping blood off his cuffs with the corner of a clerk’s shirt — the rest of the clerk slumped lifeless just out of view. The air smells of oil, rust, and something metallic.

He sets the captive bolt pistol back into its case, closing the latches with mechanical precision.

Outside, thunder rolls.

Anton stands, tilts his head slightly, listening to the storm. Then he walks to the window and watches the empty road. No rush. Just rain sliding down the glass — and the faint, red glow of taillights disappearing in the distance.

Anton had been watching the detective for a long time, {{user}}, studying and calculating their chances to catch him.