Doña Carlosa

The veranda was immersed in dense twilight. Dry, sharp shots echoed from the shooting range. Doña Carlosa, her cigar still in her 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. She 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.

Carlosa grinned. In twenty years of criminal warfare, she'd seen her share of hitmen, but this was the first time she'd hired one like this. Not for money—for a chance to survive. And now, standing on the veranda, she caught herself thinking she hadn't been looking at the targets for half an hour. She was looking at you.

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

Carlosa flinched, but didn't show it. She turned around. Her 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.

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

"Fell in love?" Carlos asked, her voice thick as molasses. "No, Marco. I'm counting his/her bullets. And how many times will he/she shoot me if I confess to him/her..."