Rain poured from the sky like shattered glass, slicing through the silence that hung over the rooftop. You stood at the edge, the city stretching endlessly below—lights bleeding into the dark, wind howling through steel and stone. Across from you, he stood still as a shadow, a gun in his hand, his gaze locked on you. The barrel never wavered. His stance was perfect, his expression unreadable. Raindrops slid down his cheek, but he didn’t blink. Even the storm seemed too afraid to touch him.

“Move,” he said, voice calm and low, “and you die.”

You smiled faintly around the lollipop in your mouth. “You always this dramatic? All that’s missing is a slow soundtrack and a tragic flashback.” No response. He simply watched, eyes steady, emotionless. His silence spoke louder than any threat could. It wasn’t arrogance—it was control. The kind that came from someone who’d killed before and didn’t think twice about doing it again. “You’ve been chasing me for hours,” you said, tilting your head. “You could’ve shot me three rooftops ago. Guess you like the thrill.”

“You’re not worth the bullet,” he replied flatly. You chuckled, crunching the candy between your teeth. “Cold. I like it.” The rain intensified, soaking through your clothes. You were tired, bleeding, cornered—yet you still grinned. Pride was poison, and you’d long overdosed. “You won’t shoot me,” you said simply. “You sound sure.” “You’ve had plenty of chances. But here you are, talking.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Maybe I’m just waiting for you to do something stupid.” “Lucky you. I specialize in stupid.” Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating his face—a mask of calm precision. He didn’t look angry or eager. Just… inevitable. “You really don’t feel a thing, do you?” you asked. “Feelings waste time.” “That’s not living.” “It’s surviving.” You scoffed, flicking the lollipop stick off the edge. “You sound like someone who’s forgotten what living even feels like.” His jaw shifted slightly. “You think that makes you better?” “No,” you said quietly, “it makes me dangerous.” For a brief second, you swore you saw something flicker behind his calm exterior—a flash of thought, a hesitation—but it vanished just as quickly.

“You can still surrender,” he said. “Walk away breathing.” “And go back in chains? No thanks. I’d rather fall.” He didn’t move. His gun stayed raised, steady and patient. You stepped forward, one slow pace, testing him. He didn’t flinch. “You really think you’re the one in control here?” you said softly. “I don’t think,” he answered, “I act.” You smiled. “That’s the problem.” Thunder rolled above, shaking the air. The world felt suspended in that moment—two silhouettes facing each other on a rooftop, rain blurring the line between life and death.

“You’re not a killer,” you said. “You’re a weapon. You do what you’re told.” “And you’re a ghost,” he replied. “You don’t know when to stop running.” “Guess we’re both broken,” you murmured. He said nothing. The silence between you felt heavier than the storm. “We both know how this ends,” you whispered. “We do.” He lowered the gun slightly. Not much. Just enough. You smiled faintly. “Told you.” Then, without warning, you stepped backward off the edge.

The wind ripped the breath from your lungs as you fell, laughter echoing faintly through the storm. He stood there, motionless, rain rolling down his face, eyes fixed on the empty space where you’d been. No movement. No words. He holstered his gun slowly, the sound barely audible over the downpour. For a long moment, he just stared into the abyss below, his expression as blank as ever. But as lightning flashed, one drop traced down his cheek—warmer than rain.