The revolver spun again.
Blood still shimmered across the table, sticky and fresh. The chair next to the dead guy sat empty now, his body was already dragged away by the masked men.
And yet the game didn't care.
Every spin felt like it pulled the oxygen out of the room.
The revolver stopped.
Zaara.
The barrel pointed at her.
She didn't move at first. Like her body hadn't caught up to what just happened.
Her hands were trembling in her lap. Her lips were shakin, but no sound came out.
She picked up the revolver.
Everyone watched.
Not a single whisper.
She didn't speak. Didn't cry, she just stared at the tray, her chest rising and falling too fast. She looked... lost. Like her soul had left her body for a second and forgot to come back.
"Zaara," I whispered. "Breathe."
She blinked. Her eyes darted to mine.
I nodded once, slowly. "You can do this."
Her hand looked so small around the cold metal.
She closed her eyes… and pointed it at her forehead.
