Prologue: The Final Shot
My past has no face. It has only the scent of burned gunpowder and the taste of iron on my tongue.
In the dream, everything moves in slow motion. The building around us is collapsing, the world turning into a fiery hell, yet I am not afraid. Because he is holding me. I don’t feel the heat of the flames—only his firm embrace. When he looks at me, I see something in his eyes so deep and burning that my heart stops for a moment. Pure, raw love.
He leans closer. His lips are hot, the taste of his breath more familiar to me than my own name.
I love you, my lips whisper in the dream, though in reality I have never spoken those words.
And then it happens. The image blurs. Instead of touching the back of his neck, my fingers meet something cold and hard.
Metal.
There is a gun in my hand, and the barrel is pressed directly against his chest—right where his heart beats beneath his ribs.
My hand doesn’t shake. My finger pulls the trigger.
A shot.
The sound is deafening. I feel the recoil travel up my arm into my shoulder. I look down. My white dress is ruined within seconds. It is completely red, splattered with hot, sticky blood that drips down my palms.
I killed him.
The man who saved me.
The man I loved.
I always wake up at the same moment—when the dying man looks at me, and in his crimson eyes there is no hatred. Only quiet, painful acceptance.
As if he had expected the shot.
