The air in Raven Springs felt heavier that night. Mist crawled low, weaving through the park benches and broken streetlights like fingers searching for something long lost. i lay on my stomach, nestled beneath the rotting leaves, my heartbeat louder than the rustle of wind through the trees.
The rifle was cold in his hands—familiar, yet alien. Not for prey. Not tonight.
A whisper echoed in his mind.
"Precision isn't about pulling the trigger... it's about accepting what happens after."
Abel's voice again. Calm. Patient. Like he wasn't asking i to kill a man, but to open a door he could never close.
Across the park, under a broken lamp, stood a man in a cheap suit. Unaware. Smoking. A briefcase at his feet.
The target.
i adjusted the scope. He exhaled slowly. The crosshairs steadied on the man's chest.
He hesitated.
He thought of his daughter. Her tubes. Her motionless fingers.
He pulled the trigger.
Crack.
The silence shattered.
The man dropped like a marionette with its strings cut. The briefcase clattered against the concrete. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked.
i stayed still. Breathing in the smoke, the guilt, the relief.
His first lesson in death.
"You're not as bad as I thought Mr Norton"
Abel's Voice crackles through my earpiece
Step 1: understand your tool
Graham knows and understands his hunting rifle pretty well. Bolt-action, scope-mounted, designed to kill with a single, well-placed shot.
Step 2: check the chamber
before Graham shoots he always checks his chamber if it's clean, good. Make sure it's loaded, and deadly. He doesn't want to keep the target alive, doesn't he? Soon Graham picks up a .308 caliber ammo and loads it into the ammo chamber
Step 3: Load with intention
slide the rounds into the chamber. Each bullet is a decision—made before the trigger is ever touched. Count them. Feel their weight.
Step 4: align your sights
Graham speaks to the radio in hesitation
"You sure about this? She's just a kid... "
Abel with a calm tone he whispers to Graham's earpiece
"She's nineteen... old enough to lie, steal, and ruin people. You're not killing a child, Mr Norton. You're correcting the world"
Graham held his rifle while shaking his hands, hesitate to pull the trigger
"You're already doing good, sharp rabbit..."
step 5: breath like a killer
Abel suddenly started to chase the girl, without thinking any longer the girl ran from Abel. She tried to scream, but it's useless by the midnight time she's walking down the park
"Focus rabbit... let the wolf do the job"
Abel doesn't let her escape even tried to corner her
Step 6: steady, aim, ready to pull the trigger
the girl was cornered at the dock begging for Abel's mercy, but he was dead silence while Graham aims down on his sights aligning his crosshair on the girl's head
"Breathe... pull the trigger... now..."
Step 7: Pull the trigger.
Graham's finger hovered near the trigger. His breath hitched.
She was sobbing.
He could hear it through the scope.
Step 7: Pull the trigger.
His hands trembled.
Sweat dripped down his temple.
His vision narrowed to just the girl on the dock.
His daughter's smile flickered in his memory.
Step 7: Pull the trigger.
What if this was wrong?
What if he couldn't come back from this?
What if she begged?
What if she didn't?
Step 7: pull the trigger.
pull the trigger
pull the trigger
pull the trigger
pullthetriggerpullthetriggerpullthetrigger P̸̜͂û̷̥ľ̴͉l̵̩̍ ̵̝͘t̷̟̐ḧ̷͈́ë̷̻ ̸̼̀t̵͔̃r̶̘̾í̸̟g̵̮̎ġ̶̥è̷͓r̴͓̈́P̸̜͂û̷̥ľ̴͉l̵̩̍ ̵̝͘t̷̟̐ḧ̷͈́ë̷̻ ̸̼̀t̵͔̃r̶̘̾í̸̟g̵̮̎ġ̶̥è̷͓r̴͓̈́P̸̜͂û̷̥ľ̴͉l̵̩̍ ̵̝͘t̷̟̐ḧ̷͈́ë̷̻ ̸̼̀t̵͔̃r̶̘̾í̸̟g̵̮̎ġ̶̥è̷͓r̴͓̈́P̸̜͂û̷̥ľ̴͉l̵̩̍ ̵̝͘t̷̟̐ḧ̷͈́ë̷̻ ̸̼̀t̵͔̃r̶̘̾í̸̟g̵̮̎ġ̶̥è̷͓r̴͓̈́P̸̜͂û̷̥ľ̴͉l̵̩̍ ̵̝͘t̷̟̐ḧ̷͈́ë̷̻ ̸̼̀t̵͔̃r̶̘̾í̸̟g̵̮̎ġ̶̥è̷͓r̴͓̈́P̸̜͂û̷̥ľ̴͉l̵̩̍ ̵̝͘t̷̟̐ḧ̷͈́ë̷̻ ̸̼̀t̵͔̃r̶̘̾í̸̟g̵̮̎ġ̶̥è̷͓r̴͓̈́P̸̗̻̗̐ŭ̶̢̩̣̆͋̒̕͝ľ̴̳̹̙͎̲̂͐̅̍̊l̴͓̘̻̅̿ ̷̲̏̐͜t̷̡̧̛̛͈͚̪͗͛h̷̫̗̙̩̊͜ȩ̴̖̩̓̅͝ ̸̛̞̜̞̻͇̱̀̃t̸̙̩̐̎͗͘r̸̝̠͌̓i̸̼̳̙̜͂͗͋͒̚g̸̤̅̓͜g̸̢̰͈̏̃͂̔e̵̥̗̤̱̍r̶̢͔̞̯̓͋͂͝P̸̗̻̗̐ŭ̶̢̩̣̆͋̒̕͝ľ̴̳̹̙͎̲̂͐̅̍̊l̴͓̘̻̅̿ ̷̲̏̐͜t̷̡̧̛̛͈͚̪͗͛h̷̫̗̙̩̊͜ȩ̴̖̩̓̅͝ ̸̛̞̜̞̻͇̱̀̃t̸̙̩̐̎͗͘r̸̝̠͌̓i̸̼̳̙̜͂͗͋͒̚g̸̤̅̓͜g̸̢̰͈̏̃͂̔e̵̥̗̤̱̍r̶̢͔̞̯̓͋͂͝P̸̗̻̗̐ŭ̶̢̩̣̆͋̒̕͝ľ̴̳̹̙͎̲̂͐̅̍̊l̴͓̘̻̅̿ ̷̲̏̐͜t̷̡̧̛̛͈͚̪͗͛h̷̫̗̙̩̊͜ȩ̴̖̩̓̅͝ ̸̛̞̜̞̻͇̱̀̃t̸̙̩̐̎͗͘r̸̝̠͌̓i̸̼̳̙̜͂͗͋͒̚g̸̤̅̓͜g̸̢̰͈̏̃͂̔e̵̥̗̤̱̍r̶̢͔̞̯̓͋͂͝P̸̗̻̗̐ŭ̶̢̩̣̆͋̒̕͝ľ̴̳̹̙͎̲̂͐̅̍̊l̴͓̘̻̅̿ ̷̲̏̐͜t̷̡̧̛̛͈͚̪͗͛h̷̫̗̙̩̊͜ȩ̴̖̩̓̅͝ ̸̛̞̜̞̻͇̱̀̃t̸̙̩̐̎͗͘r̸̝̠͌̓i̸̼̳̙̜͂͗͋͒̚g̸̤̅̓͜g̸̢̰͈̏̃͂̔e̵̥̗̤̱̍r̶̢͔̞̯̓͋͂͝P̸̗̻̗̐ŭ̶̢̩̣̆͋̒̕͝ľ̴̳̹̙͎̲̂͐̅̍̊l̴͓̘̻̅̿ ̷̲̏̐͜t̷̡̧̛̛͈͚̪͗͛h̷̫̗̙̩̊͜ȩ̴̖̩̓̅͝ ̸̛̞̜̞̻͇̱̀̃t̸̙̩̐̎͗͘r̸̝̠͌̓i̸̼̳̙̜͂͗͋͒̚g̸̤̅̓͜g̸̢̰͈̏̃͂̔e̵̥̗̤̱̍r̶̢͔̞̯̓͋͂͝P̸̗̻̗̐ŭ̶̢̩̣̆͋̒̕͝ľ̴̳̹̙͎̲̂͐̅̍̊l̴͓̘̻̅̿ ̷̲̏̐͜t̷̡̧̛̛͈͚̪͗͛h̷̫̗̙̩̊͜ȩ̴̖̩̓̅͝ ̸̛̞̜̞̻͇̱̀̃t̸̙̩̐̎͗͘r̸̝̠͌̓i̸̼̳̙̜͂͗͋͒̚g̸̤̅̓͜g̸̢̰͈̏̃͂̔e̵̥̗̤̱̍r̶̢͔̞̯̓͋͂͝P̸̗̻̗̐ŭ̶̢̩̣̆͋̒̕͝ľ̴̳̹̙͎̲̂͐̅̍̊l̴͓̘̻̅̿ ̷̲̏̐͜t̷̡̧̛̛͈͚̪͗͛h̷̫̗̙̩̊͜ȩ̴̖̩̓̅͝ ̸̛̞̜̞̻͇̱̀̃t̸̙̩̐̎͗͘r̸̝̠͌̓i̸̼̳̙̜͂͗͋͒̚g̸̤̅̓͜g̸̢̰͈̏̃͂̔e̵̥̗̤̱̍r̶̢͔̞̯̓͋͂͝P̸̗̻̗̐ŭ̶̢̩̣̆͋̒̕͝ľ̴̳̹̙͎̲̂͐̅̍̊l̴͓̘̻̅̿ ̷̲̏̐͜t̷̡̧̛̛͈͚̪͗͛h̷̫̗̙̩̊͜ȩ̴̖̩̓̅͝ ̸̛̞̜̞̻͇̱̀̃t̸̙̩̐̎͗͘r̸̝̠͌̓i̸̼̳̙̜͂͗͋͒̚g̸̤̅̓͜g̸̢̰͈̏̃͂̔e̵̥̗̤̱̍r̶̢͔̞̯̓͋͂͝
PULL THE TRIGGER NOW
His heartbeat drummed in his ears.
She turned toward Abel. One more step and she'd leap.
A scream was rising in her throat.
Step 7:
Graham exhaled.
Time stopped.
He squeezed.
CRACK.
The girl's body crumpled and slipped into the water.
Silent. Sudden. Absolute.
step 8:observe their fall
Graham didn't look back, beneath the bunny mask he somehow feels a bit of guilt but... some of him feels pride
"I knew you're a good hunter..." said Abel in pride as The girl's lifeless body floats on the river.
Graham didn't linger. The echo of the shot still rang in his ears as he packed up the rifle with trembling hands. He couldn't look at the lake. He didn't want to see if the water still rippled. He just turned and walked away, each step heavier than the last.
By the time he reached home, the night had thickened into a choking silence. The world outside was calm, unaware. He pushed open the door, expecting stillness—maybe even guilt waiting in the dark.
But instead, he froze.
On his kitchen table, stacked neatly and bound in tight, blood-red bands, was money. More than he'd ever seen in his life. Piles of cash in a steel suitcase, with a single note placed on top.
"You chose well. – A."
Graham stared at it, breath caught in his throat. His hands hovered just above the briefcase, unsure whether to touch it or set it ablaze. It was real. Crisp. Heavy. Tempting. The kind of money that could erase debts, buy treatments, fix a shattered life. But it reeked of blood and guilt.
He didn't sleep that night.
Instead, he drove. Without even thinking, the wheels took him to the old church on the edge of town—the one place he thought might still offer absolution.
The heavy doors creaked open. Inside, the dim glow of candlelight flickered across wooden pews. At the altar stood a man in black robes, hands folded, eyes already on him.
"Father Otto," Graham called out, his voice hoarse.
The priest stepped forward calmly, as if he'd been waiting all along.
"I've done something," Graham said, almost breathless. "Something... I can't take back."
Father Otto tilted his head, eyes shadowed under the candlelight. "Then confess, my son. Let's speak of sins... and salvation."
Graham sank into the nearest pew, rifle calluses tightening around the edges of his jacket. He didn't meet Otto's gaze right away—he couldn't. His heart felt like it was still back on that dock, drowning.
Otto stepped down from the altar with slow, deliberate steps. His robes brushed the floor like whispers. When he finally sat beside Graham, it was without judgment—no towering posture, no condemnation. Just presence.
"You've come here carrying a heavy weight," Otto said gently, his voice warm and deep like a cello string. "And that tells me one thing, Mr. Norton… that your soul is still alive."
Graham glanced at him, startled. "You know my name?"
Otto smiled softly. "A shepherd watches the flock, even those who wander far from the pasture."
There was something about his tone—reassuring, almost fatherly. Graham felt like a child again. Small. Lost. Seen.
"I killed someone," Graham muttered. "Shot her. Watched her fall. And I don't even know her name."
Otto was quiet for a moment. Not with discomfort—but with patience. As if weighing the pain, not the crime.
"Violence… it leaves scars on both ends of the barrel," he said. "But I believe even the darkest path can lead back to light. The question is: what will you do with the pain?"
"I don't know," Graham admitted. "I did it for my daughter. But now… I don't feel like a father anymore."
Otto placed a steady hand on his shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding.
"You are a father, Graham. A man who would cross hell for his child is not evil—he is merely… desperate. And desperation, in the right hands, becomes power."
Graham stared ahead, jaw clenched. He didn't fully understand what Otto meant—but it didn't sound wrong. Not in this place. Not from this man.
Otto stood, his robes swaying like a curtain of midnight.
"Return to me when the silence gets too loud," he said. "When the world stops pretending it can forgive you. My doors will remain open."
As Graham turned to look back one last time, Otto was already at the altar again—lit softly by the candlelight, eyes closed in prayer. The picture of grace.
What Graham didn't see… was the faint smile playing on Otto's lips. Nor the way the cross behind him cast a shadow too crooked to be holy.