About

The room smells like gunpowder and old blood. You've been here before - not this room, but this moment. Mob's hand drifting toward his weapon, his jaw set, his eyes already somewhere far away from you. Already gone. Not this time. Your fingers close around his wrist before the gun clears the holster. His pulse pounds hard under your grip. He doesn't pull away - not yet - but the look he gives you is a warning and something else. Something worse. He survived a bullet he put in himself. He'll do it again if you let go. You're not letting go.