Hello Everyone:

This fic is a rewriting of the entire season seven of Burn Notice. It includes some canon scenes/episodes and a lot of original scenes that sprang from changing the canon storyline. This was mainly due to how I felt that the entire team's dynamic changed towards each other. So this is how I went about fixing that. (This was written for Quantum Bang 2024.)

A big thank you to my wonderful alpha and beta readers; Aethir, Rangersyl and Taiamu (on AO3). They did a wonderful job of helping me clean up the story to make it more coherent and readable.

Warnings: Canon-level/graphic violence, canon-level mental/physical torture, mild suicidal thoughts, non-consensual drugging, non-explicit sexual content, canon-level discussions/hallucinations of child abuse, Violence-domestic (referenced), death-minor characters, canonical deaths, kidnapping, explicit language, canon-level alcoholism, use of bio-weapons.

Hope you'll enjoy the story!

Part One - The Time it All Went to Hell.

Chapter 1

Hotel InterContinental
Miami

13:00 Hours

When you were in the middle of a high-stakes intelligence-gathering operation, concentration was one key element. Whether you were in a car, on the street, or doing your surveillance poolside, you had to stay focused at all times. Because even the slightest detail had the power to decide the difference between a successful mission, and a complete disaster.

Michael knew that, of course. It was another one of those countless tradecraft lessons that had been drilled into him through training and experience. Tyler Gray was about to make his appearance for the meeting they had set up with Tom Card, the man who had given the order that led to the murder of Michael's brother.

If all went according to plan, they were going to have a full confession in their hands, in addition to the evidence and the witness they already had. Once the murderous bastard had been handed over to the agency, the CIA could throw Card in the deepest and darkest hole they could find, for all Michael cared.

To think, he had looked up to the man, trusted him… Michael sighed. The betrayal stung like no other.

He had been Michael's mentor, the senior CIA agent who had made sure Michael became the operative he was. And, ironically enough, the man he had come to think of as a father.

Frank Westen had never been anything other than an abusive bully, and a deadbeat bastard. The only childhood Michael knew had been a living hell he couldn't wait to get out of. The man who was supposed to be his father had made his son pay for his very existence by using him as a punching bag to alleviate his own frustrations and sense of failure.

Michael had only been seventeen when he'd made his escape, and had shown up at the military recruiting centre with nothing but twenty bucks in his pocket and the clothes on his back.

It had been one of the happiest days of his life.

Then, of course, there had been another senior operative, the spy who had taken Michael under his wing, Larry Sizemore. It had taken a lot longer than it should have for Michael to realise he was a dangerous, psychotic murderer who thought he could shape Michael into his own twisted image.

The memory of the now-dead operative made Michael wonder idly whether he'd ever thanked Fiona for getting rid of the bastard for good.

And now… there was Tom Card.

It was as if he was destined to attract the worst father figures the world had to offer, the ones who would inevitably end up betraying him in the most horrible ways imaginable.

Michael tried not to sigh as he stared at the side entrance to the hotel. It would only attract Sam's attention. He was not in the mood to be interrogated by his well-meaning friend.

Of all the people who could have turned their backs on the scant few morals the Company still upheld, Michael had a hard time believing it turned out to be Tom Card. He had never seen beyond the facade throughout all the years Card had been his training officer, had never even caught a glimpse of the deceit buried beneath the veneer of dignity, honour and trustworthiness.

The things he had seen, had lived through and experienced since his burn notice, had shown Michael a part of his grey world he had never been exposed to before; agencies within agencies, networks within networks, all existing upon layers made of personal visions and agendas where things like accountability, responsibility and duty took a backseat to personal glory, wealth and profit.

He wanted to rage…to fight against the rot that had taken over the one thing he had always put above everything else, the institution to which he had dedicated all that he was for a damned long time. At the same time, there was a part of him that was frustrated, simmering in an impotent fury that had morphed from his initial disbelief. Now, he was starting to question whether it was worth it to put his own life and the lives of the people he cared about on the line over and over again to fix something that was, most likely, permanently broken.

The rest of him was just tired, weary with bone-deep exhaustion that stemmed from the constant grief threatening to drown him every waking moment. Nate, his kid brother, had been a pain in the ass most of his life, but he had come through every time when Michael had needed him – something Michael had never imagined possible.

Michael had returned the favour by putting him in a position he never should have been in the first place…had paid for everything his brother had done for him by getting him killed.

He knew it was the one thing in his life that he would never ever be able to forgive himself for, just like his mother refused to do.

Try as he might, Michael couldn't prevent the view of the walkway and the hotel lobby he was supposed to be surveilling from fading in his vision as the memory of his earlier visit to his mom's intruded, unbidden, despite the fact that he needed his full concentration elsewhere.

The thick cloud of Morley's smoke welcomed him home as it always did. The sharp smell of tobacco never failed to burn his nose, and he could almost taste it in the back of his throat.

"Michael." Madeline graced him with a sideways glance that didn't linger even for a second.

Michael expected it, of course. Ever since Nate's death, she rarely ever looked at his face, let alone in the eyes. What used to be a bright blue gaze was dark and dull these days, almost lifeless, as if her grief over Nate was morphing into an unfeeling numbness. It only ever sharpened into something else whenever he came around.

That sharp glint spoke volumes of her disgust, horror… and blame. It pierced him to the core with the precision of a fine-edged dagger and carved the depths of her hate into his very bones.

"Hey, Mom," he said quietly as he took a few steps closer to the dining table, eyeing the clothes she had haphazardly piled onto it. "Big day tomorrow."

She took two framed photos off the shelf behind her and shoved them inside an empty cardboard box she had on the chair next to her.

"We start gathering evidence against Card," Michael continued, hoping she would look up. "About the secrets he's keeping… the reason Nate died."

She stiffened as if he had slapped her. As if in her mind, Michael had lost the right even to say his brother's name out loud. It was a subtle thing, but it was obvious to Michael because a part of him - the part where all the demons that like to torture him lived - was expecting it…watching out for it. When she finally looked up, she made no effort to hide her true feelings.

"There's no reason Nate died." Her smile was sharp enough to cut, and it hurt.

"I understand how you feel, Mom," he started, swallowing thickly, "I want you to know that Card's gonna pay for what he did. I promise you that."

She turned away to pick up another photo, one of him and Fiona this time.

"And all the things I've done," he said, trying to convince himself as much as his mother, "they'll be worth it."

The photo went into the box without much care.

"Michael, I'm leaving Miami."

For a moment, his mind went blank. Leaving Miami? The only home she had ever known? But why?

The analytical part of his brain took over as he looked around, taking in the boxes and the pile of clothes on the dining room table in a new light. It really shouldn't have taken him that long to figure out that she was packing, not just keeping herself occupied by moving stuff around so she didn't have to look at him.

"I guess that would be a good idea." Michael ventured hesitantly, his mind racing a mile a minute to figure out why she was leaving so suddenly, "It will sell the story that we really died in–"

"No, it's no ruse," Madeline cut off his pathetic attempt at guessing her motives. "It's permanent."

His mind screeched to a stop, completely stunned out of the turmoil that was brewing in it. He blinked.

"Your aunt Jill said I could stay with her," she continued as if it was no big deal. "And I've been missing her for a long time. So, that'll work."

Two more folded pants and a blouse with a floral print went inside a duffel in the time it took Michael to snap out his stupor.

"Don't, uh–" he had to clear his suddenly dry throat a little to get the words out. "Don't you think that's a little drastic?"

Madeline let out a long sigh as her gaze wandered around, taking in the living room and kitchen, glancing off the ghosts of memories, the good and the bad, that always lingered.

"I can't keep watching you turn yourself inside out, working with these…monsters," she said finally, weariness seeping into dull the sharpness in her gaze. "Tyler Gray and Card, and whoever's next–"

"It doesn't matter," Michael said quickly, frantically, while his hands moved of their own volition to pluck the photos out of the box and put them back where they belonged. "There's no one next after this… no one."

"Right." She scoffed.

Ma, don't do this to me, not now…

Michael had to avert his gaze so that his unshed tears couldn't betray his desperation. "I need you." He choked out.

"I can't." Her cutting tone was final. Steel bands tightened around his chest and Michael tried to breathe through the pain.

"I can't go on like this," Madeline murmured, softening her words for the first time in a long time. She was looking at him with eyes that held a watery sheen. "...living in a place where everything reminds me of the sons I have lost."

Sons.

Michael swallowed again, willing his composure to hold, to not crumble then and there. He knew he hadn't heard her wrong. She didn't say son, but sons, in plural.

Had she written him off so completely already? Was he beyond her forgiveness? He had thought going after Nate's killers would be a way to begin closing the gaping chasm that had grown between them. To redeem himself, to get her to look at him again without loathing and contempt. Was that not the case anymore? Was it ever?

"I–I'm still here," he breathed, his entire being rebelling against the belief that he had lost her for good, too.

"I don't know about that," his mother didn't spare him any kindness. "I need a new beginning, Michael." Stunned as he was, with his mind struggling to hold onto the pieces of him that were busy falling apart, he almost missed her next words. "...And I want you to do me a favour–"

He nodded mechanically, not really understanding. If there was anything, anything at all, that he could do not to lose the only family he had left, he would do it.

"When this business with Card is over, I want you to start over, too," she said as if that was the easiest thing in the world.

"Look alive, people," Jesse's sudden call over his earpiece dragged Michael back to the present, rather unceremoniously. "Gray's here for the meeting."

The ex-CIFA agent was seated at a table by the pool with Fiona, where they could easily keep an eye on the main entrance while comfortably sipping the cocktails the bikini-clad servers from the pool bar brought them. Michael, on the other hand, had the dubious pleasure of sharing the hot, cramped, and stifling interior of the borrowed Nissan with Sam. They were discreetly parked next to the resort's exit on the other side.

Michael brought the binoculars up for a better look. Sure enough, he saw the arrogant set of familiar broad shoulders in a white shirt and grey jacket wading through the scantily-clad vacationers. The determined, unapologetic gait of the ex-Marine sniper had people hastily jumping out of the way, clearing out of his path.

"All clear over here. We'll stand by."

Michael heard the small sigh that escaped his friend before Sam even opened his mouth.

"You look a little edgy there, buddy–"

"Don't," Michael snapped, the anger in his tone directed mostly at himself. "We have a job to do."

He hadn't realised that his fingers were tapping a fast rhythm on his knee without his conscious input, betraying his anxiety. He grabbed the hi-res binoculars again, since that was the only thing he had at hand to hide his face behind, as inadequate as it was for a cover. Sam meant well, Michael knew that, but now was not the time for one of his talks.

Maybe that time would never come.

Sam, of course, had never been good at taking a hint no matter how clearly you enunciated your words. Not when he was of the opinion that what he had to say was important. "You're worried about your mom, It's okay, perfectly normal even–"

If you only knew. Michael exhaled slowly, keeping his frustration and inner turmoil under a tight rein. He could see absolutely nothing, even though his eyes were wide open and pressed against the small viewfinder.

"The thing is, Mike–"

His salvation came in the form of a sudden, sharp sound. A confident, staccato knock on a closed door was heard through the radio on the dashboard - the one they had tuned into the channel connected to Gray's comms.

"Quiet."

"Good to see you, Tyler."

That was Card.

"Another sunny day."

That was a code.

"It's a scorcher."

That was a counter. Michael had to trust that the sniper had just given the all-clear to the traitor.

"You gonna invite me in, or are we gonna talk in the hall–"

Then there were more sounds; a chuckle, a back slap, and the thud of a door closing, followed by the soft snick of a turning lock. Michael knew something was wrong the moment static crackled over the radio.

"Okay, what the hell?" Sam frowned. "We just lost him."

"Wait," Michael said, checking the radio channel again. There was nothing but a squealing tone. "Is that–"

"No signal," Sam confirmed what he already knew.

"Frequency jammer. Shit!" Michael cursed. "That's not good."

Sam twisted in his seat, his gaze fixed on something behind them. "And that's not good either."

Turning around in his seat with the binoculars trained at the rearview, Michael saw what the ex-SEAL had noticed.

"Card brought a team," he snapped, getting out of the car in a hurry. There were three armed agents piling out of an unmarked SUV. All of their gazes were fixed on the eighth floor, where Michael knew Card had a room booked. It was not much of a stretch to assume that there were more of them surrounding the entire building even as they watched.

"Wait," Sam caught up to him, stumbling and half-jogging to match the fast pace Michael set. He was trying to get to the building before the other team saw them. "Wait. Mike, hold on–"

"Sam–"

"Look, look," his friend panted as he did his best to keep up. "If he wanted Gray dead, Card wouldn't have brought all these guys. He's not going to kill him."

Michael didn't need Sam to point that out. That was not what he was worried about. "Card's gonna bring Gray in and hang everything around his neck. Panama, Nate, Anson…all of it." He explained as he opened the small wrought iron gate that led them to the elevator at the east entrance. "We've got to haul Card out in cuffs and take our chances now before his team's in place."

Michael stepped out the moment the elevator door opened with a ding. They were in a hallway that only had a corner suite at the opposite end, which was a good thing, security-wise. There were only two possible ways of entry; the elevator and the stairs next to it.

"Keep an eye out," he said, pulling his gun out of the holster at his hip and taking off the safety as he drew closer to the closed door.

"I should go in with you," Sam protested immediately and started to follow. His stubborn friend was more interested in keeping an eye on Michael than any impending threats.

"If Card's people are coming, I need a heads up," Michael countered, nodding at the window further down to their left. From there, Sam could watch the entry points to the floor and the movement of Card's team on the ground at the same time.

Besides, the last thing Michael needed was an audience when he finally confronted the man who broke his trust so completely as if it was nothing.

"Now, get over there and keep an eye out." He emphasised his point by turning Sam bodily around and shoving him out of the way.

Once Sam was in position, Michael gave him a firm nod. Then, taking in a deep breath, he steadied his weapon in a two-handed grip and loosened his shoulders.

The moment of truth.

Finally.

Michael would have his answers and justice for Nate, one way or another.

With his Smith & Wesson held firmly in front of him, he kicked the door open and went in to confront the traitor.

The room was small and had a desk pushed against the only window that offered the unrestricted view below. Card and Gray sat across from each other. Gray had his back to the lounge furniture while Card had the wall behind him. They both looked up, startled, as the door almost flew off its hinges when Michael kicked it in.

Card recovered first from the shock of his loud, unexpected entry.

"Hello, there." His voice didn't betray the slightest apprehension or surprise as he greeted Michael.

"Show me your hands, Tom," Michael ordered, pointing his gun straight at the man.

Gray stayed where he was, too shocked to move. "What are you doing?"

Michael took in Card's posture with a quick glance. There was a rigid set to the older man's shoulders as he sat with his body slightly angled. The tight corners of his eyes and the twitch in his jaw hinted at the fury he fought to keep hidden. However, what was most concerning, was the way his left hand rested on the table while the right stayed conveniently out of sight.

"Gray," said Michael, his gaze never leaving the other man, "he has a weapon trained on you."

"Michael Westen," Card smiled, doing nothing to deny his words. "Back from the dead."

"Not just me, Tom," Michael murmured, taking two more steps inside the room, closer to the seated duo. "The whole team. It's over. The truth's coming out. Put the weapon down!"

"Right," Card said, his smile morphing into a mocking snarl as his right hand came up to reveal the suppressed Sig-Sauer P226 he had been concealing under the table. Gray drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the gun which was now pointed at him openly, but stayed still. "I'll put my gun down right after you, killer."

Michael had no intention of doing that.

"Tom, drop the weapon," Gray reiterated.

"This is between him and me, sport," Card aimed him a look, his finger stroking the trigger in a way that encouraged Gray to keep his mouth shut and hands on the table. Then he turned back to Michael. "I should have known something was going on, especially when those just-too-cute files showed up from your loft." His gun hand moved, and its aim travelled towards Gray's head.

"Tom–"

"Put the weapon down," Michael ordered again as he moved a few more steps closer to Gray, trying to cover him, "Don't do–"

Card sprang up from his chair with the speed and agility of a man much younger, letting out a piercing whistle that halted Michael's movement on pure reflex.

"What are you gonna do, hmm? Shoot me?" Card goaded, "You're not the only guy in the room who has a team outside. I told my people that I was coming to see an unstable asset."

His gaze travelled to the right, towards the window and outside, where Michael knew a heavily armed CIA team was scrambling to surround the building. He exchanged a glance with a pale-faced Gray, trying to figure out a way to get Card to stand down.

"God damn it, I don't want to do this!" Card's sudden yell startled both Michael and Gray. "I don't want to do this," he said to Gray. "I don't want to do this." He said to Michael. His gun, however, never wavered from where it was aimed at Gray.

Gray saw what was coming just as clearly as Michael did.

"Don't," the ex-Marine yelled, getting off the chair and stumbling hastily back a step. "Don't!"

Michael felt helpless, even though he had his own gun trained at Card. The CIA man had a calm expression on his face, too calm in fact, as if he had gone beyond reason, beyond sanity, beyond the fundamental rules that kept them on the side of the good.

"I'm so sorry," Card said softly to Gray, "He painted me into a corner the minute he kicked down that door."

"No, No!" Michael yelled, "Tom–"

"He killed your brother!"

Michael almost didn't hear the soft pop of the suppressed gun going off. Gray's fall registered in a bizarre slow-motion in his periphery, as if his mind couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. What snapped Michael back to reality was the muted thud of Gray's body hitting the carpeted floor. The downed sniper's white shirt rapidly turned crimson as the blood poured out of the new hole in his chest.

"Hands on your head, Hands on your goddamn head!" Michael screamed, shaken to the core at the shot Card had taken without even looking.

His scrambling mind was torn between keeping the murderer covered with his weapon and dropping to his knees to check the unmoving man on the floor. A quick glance at the position of the wound told him that Gray was beyond his help. Card hadn't missed.

"Listen to me, Michael," Card murmured, complying with Michael's order to move his hands behind his head, with the gun and all. "Gray killed Anson. Gray shot your brother. He murdered your brother, he did that." He walked around the table slowly, and came to a stop with Gray's lifeless body on the floor between them. "Right there, he did that." He nodded at the pool of blood on the ground, emphasising his point.

"You ordered him to," Michael gritted out hoarsely, finally finding his voice. "You are responsible."

"I never wanted Nate dead," Card growled, "I never would have taken that shot!"

"You tried to have me killed." Michael snarled. "You sent a fucking F-18 to Panama on top of Gray to make sure we were all as dead as we could get. Pressman never made it out. You did that!"

"And that is my own personal hell," Card gentled his voice, his eyes welling up on cue as if he meant it. "It wasn't supposed to go like that–"

Michael did his best to breathe evenly, struggling to keep his wavering gun trained on the man as much as he could. It was hard not to let the sincere-sounding words affect him the way they did, even then.

"You were like a son to me."

A chuckle escaped Michael then, full of incredulity and bitter disbelief. His own eyes burned as he tried not to let the imploring look in Card's gaze pierce through him as it almost always did.

"You're out of your mind," he grunted, his voice wobbling a little.

Even after everything he had done, the bastard still had an intense effect on Michael. He knew all of Michael's weak and vulnerable spots, and knew exactly what to say to shake his convictions.

"We both know that it is a big, bad world out there, Michael. And guys like you and me - we make the calls. We get up in the morning and we know how the ends justify the means." Card kept on talking like he was talking a man off of a ledge. Which was exactly how Michael felt as he glanced around, looking for something, anything to make sense before bringing his wavering gun up to aim at Card again.

"Why do you think Anson had to go, huh? I'll tell you why. Because he knew what I had going on in Yemen, in China, in Pakistan–"

The countries Card named stirred something in Michael's mind. He had a flashback to the report he submitted to Max Newman all those months ago – the report he had compiled after painstakingly, obsessively going over everything he had on the shadowy organisation that didn't even have a name. The organisation that had been responsible for his burn notice, and introducing the world's most unhinged, psychotic and deadly people such as Carla, Victor, Gilroy, Vaughn, and Simon to his life.

After reading and rereading everything he had gathered on the out-of-control network, Michael had started to notice inconsistencies, things that failed to stand out at the beginning – tiny little things such as a side note on a seemingly random flight, money transfers that went nowhere, a bunch of lost receipts, or a few receipts that didn't belong, a purchase here and there that never made into any sort of record or inventory. Those insignificant things had made no sense, initially, until Michael had begun to see fragmented connections that had hinted at a bigger picture, capturing the attention of the part of his brain that loved analytics and probing into patterns.

That follow-up report was the reason Max died, Michael realised. That meant the damned report was also responsible for putting him on Anson's radar - the man who had been hell-bent on resurrecting the organisation Michael had burned to the ground, from its ashes.

Michael had always wondered how exactly Anson Fullerton had known that Michael had begun to have doubts…to suspect that things hadn't ended as everyone had hoped and celebrated as a once-in-a-lifetime achievement before putting it to rest.

Maybe now he had his answer. Card was Anson's inside man. His own double agent inside the agency – a talented, well-respected, well-connected pillar of the community, a giant in the venerated halls of the Central Intelligence Agency. One man no one would ever have suspected.

Until now.

"Someone has to carry the bag to the front line," Card's insistent voice broke through his distraction, and Michael saw him slowly lowering himself to the ground, groping around Gray's belt for his gun. "So I pulled the trigger on a couple of really bad guys–" he pulled out Gray's Heckler & Koch Mark 23 without breaking eye contact with Michael, and shot the wall behind him twice in quick succession, startling Michael again. "Or we rolled the dice on a couple of really bad conflicts."

By then, Michael felt as if he was pointing a prop at Card, not a loaded gun, for all the use he had for it. His grip on his weapon trembled as if he was a bumbling new recruit fresh out of training instead of the seasoned operative that he was. His mind was scattered in a million, senseless directions. He watched helplessly as Card placed the freshly used gun back into Gray's lifeless hand, calmly staging the scene to look as if the ex-Marine had gotten a couple of shots off at Card before Card had put him down.

"You–you're talking about treason, Tom," Michael finally found his words.

Card straightened again, squaring up to Michael with his gun pointed down. He had already figured out Michael was nowhere near in control of the situation they had brewing between them.

He was right, of course. Michael felt utterly and completely lost, unmoored, as he witnessed his truest beliefs – the things he had believed in his core, the foundation he had given the best years of his life to while holding nothing back – crumbling before his very eyes.

"It might be time for you to grow up, my friend," Card said, smiling, taking great pleasure in the sight of Michael losing his faith in everything he had fought for all this time.

"You're not my friend," Michael murmured, averting his gaze to stare at the gun Card held in his hand, still pointing to the ground.

"But I was," Card reminded him, sounding so damned earnest it made Michael's skin crawl. "And I damn sure can be again."

He kept talking when Michael chose to stay quiet, willing his brain to make sense out of the surreal mess in his sight, as well as the one in his mind.

"We can do things, Michael - great things, necessary things. There's a long to-do list, and there's nobody left to do them." The look his old trainer levelled at Michael was a curious blend of contempt, admiration and pride. "You wiped out the last batch. It's just you and me now."

Michael swallowed.

"Clock's ticking," Card said, blinking to keep the tears that had gathered in his eyes from falling. It made him seem deceptively sincere. "What do you think, Michael? Can we - Can we put all this behind us?"

Michael stared at him, frozen.

Did he really think it was that easy? Was the body that was lying on the floor between them just another bad guy? Another statistic or another means to an end? Was that all they ever were?

"Can we move into the future?" Card's words were barely above a whisper.

As spies, they already lived in the world of greys, continuously toeing a blurry line that constantly changed whenever the definitions of the good and the bad, the right and the wrong wavered and stumbled. Card seemed to think that total disregard for what few rules they had that differentiated them from the bad guys, the enemy, was acceptable. Was the right thing to do, even. That it was perfectly fine and okay to make up your own rules and measurements of justice. That it was perfectly fine and okay to have no accountability for his decisions and actions whatsoever.

All Michael had to do was forget everything Card had done and agree to move on. To wipe the slate clean as if there was no blood on Card's hands or Michael's own by extension. To accept that all of the sacrifices meant nothing:

That his brother died for nothing.

That Gray lay between them bleeding from a hole in his chest for nothing.

That his friends had put their own lives on the line for him over and over for nothing.

That Michael lost the only family he had ever had for nothing.

That it was all just a part of a game Card had played, with Michael as his pawn and nothing more.

Maybe it was really that simple, Michael thought, marvelling at the sudden clarity in his mind after the rollercoaster of emotions that had been churning inside him.

There's no one next after this… no one.

He had made a promise to his mother after all, and he intended to keep it.

Michael accepted what had to be done to end it all with a deep, calming breath. He lowered his gun to the ground slowly, and gave Card a sharp nod.

Card returned his gun back to his hip holster with a relieved sigh.

"I'm proud of you, son," he declared with a smile that was almost genuine.

Michael's body carried out the conclusion he had arrived at in his mind without any further input from him. His hand lifted up on its own accord while Michael watched numbly, and his index finger caressed the trigger without waiting for his permission. The shot was point blank and the bullet found a home between Card's widened eyes, and his body fell back to the ground with a muted thud.

The sound of the gunshot reverberated inside the small room for what felt like an unnaturally long time.