The gun is cold in your palm. You calculate the distance and adjust the angle. It is not a clear shot but it is not hard. You mentally trace the trajectory of the bullet, arms shifting to ensure a clean shot straight into the centre of the forehead. Certain death upon impact. You weigh the speed in the event of a gun drawn on you. You tense muscles for the recoil and
his hand is warm in yours, tugging your fingers and curiously demanding, "Who was that, Kubo-chan?"
You reply, "Just some solicitation of a newcomer to the sex industry."
