Tryson's eyes locked onto Arthur, wide with shock and disbelief, as if the world had stopped spinning for a moment. His gaze darted down, drawn almost magnetically to the crimson stains blooming across Arthur's once-clean shirt.
The blood was vivid—thick and slow as it seeped downward, a stark contrast against the fabric. His breath caught in his throat.
Arthur's shirt. Not his.
Tryson blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, his mind refusing to accept the image in front of him.
But the realization hit harder than any bullet—he hadn't even fired the gun.
His hands were frozen, never having touched the trigger. And yet, someone had. As if summoned by the tension in the air, Tryson's gaze flicked upward and there she was—Sophia.
Standing just behind them, arm extended, fingers wrapped around a gun still trembling slightly from the recoil.
The look in her eyes was unreadable, but the truth was unmistakable. She had fired the shot.
