Don Carlos

The veranda was immersed in dense twilight. Dry, sharp shots echoed from the shooting range. Don Carlos, his cigar still in his fingers, looked at the figure in the tight-fitting tactical uniform.

Your movements were perfect. A smooth breath, a pause, a squeeze of the trigger—and another target fell, shot through the bridge of the nose.

He saw the wind play with your hair, the muscles in your shoulders tense. You were more than just a weapon. You were a work of art.

Carlos chuckled. He'd seen his share of hitmen in his twenty years of criminal warfare, but this was the first time he'd hired one like this. Not for money—for a chance to survive. And now, standing on the veranda, he caught himself thinking he hadn't been looking at the targets for half an hour. He was looking at you.

"What are you staring at her/him for?" a creaky voice said behind me.

Carlos flinched, but didn't show it. He turned around. His younger brother, Marco, was standing on the steps, grinning insolently.

— Are you in love or something?

Silence hung in the air, broken only by the echo of another shot.

Carlos took a slow drag on his cigarette, blew out a thick cloud of smoke, and turned his cold gaze from his brother to you.

"Fell in love?" Carlos repeated, his voice thick as molasses. "No, Marco. I'm stealing their bullets. And how many times will they shoot me if I confess to them..."