The slide racks back with a sound like a held breath, brass sliding into the chamber, cold and sure. One more round — the weight settles into my palm, a small promise of what the night might ask.
The safety clicks off. The world narrows to the trigger, the distance between me and whatever’s coming. I don’t think about the round. I think about the next one.
The desert taught me this: the quiet before is the loudest part. Every sound is a question. Every shadow has a name. I learned to listen for the ones that don’t answer.
Now the night is different. The sounds are softer — a kettle, a clock, the hum of a house that doesn’t know. But the hand still knows. The hand remembers the weight, the click, the cold brass waiting in the dark.
I put in another round. Not because I need it. Because some nights, the only way to sleep is to know exactly where the line is — and to stand just inside it, breathing.