Gundrop silence.

The wooden stock was gleaned smooth. Smoothened out by the many sweaty arms against which it had leaned while its sight zoned in on its target. It was worn out. But AK's never get too worn out. The wooden stock. The cold steel muzzle. Its weight so delicately balanced by the bulk of the magazine. It felt right.

He could feel blood surging up his temples. Hear it foot-tap to the rhythm of his heart. And he remembered her face. Her delicately arched eyebrows. And her eyes which held that ocean of truth.

He could hear them come. The footsteps crunching in the gravel. The courtyard. The sun blared in through the window with a vicious violence. Sharp shadows. Sharper footfalls. He held the rifle. The magazine clicked into place. It felt right.

He could hear his deep breaths. Feel his chest heaving. And yet so silent. The gravel crunching in the courtyard. And he remembered her face. Her peach skin so soft beneath his fingers. Her cheeks turning cherry pink with his touch.

He clicked off the safety. Leaned out of the window. Arms resting on the rough grainy windowsill. The weight of the gun. The sunlight streaking, turning his eyebrows gold as he trained his eyes down the sight. Pulled trigger. TISSHHK. A puff of smoke. And a body fell limb in the courtyard. Pulled back the safety. Eyes trained again. It felt right.

Sweat trickling down his brow. Legs cramped. He sees the flare as a gunshot is fired. A volley of bullets. The windowsill splinters. The windowpane bursts into sharp bits of sunshine.

Her face... Her lips curled into that half-amused smile.

No more heartbeats. No deep breaths. No sweat down his brow.

Gundrop silence.