The gun was cold against my hip.
A dead man's gun. My gun now.
I couldn't think about that.
Not now.
Not yet.
I stepped back from the platform, the world still tilting around me. The stale air of the station clung to my skin, thick with the ghosts of past transit, of people who used to pass through this place without thinking.
And the stink of blood. Mine. His.
The cap pressed tight over my hair. Good. That was one thing hidden. But my arm—
I flexed my fingers instinctively, the ones that weren't there. My brain still sent signals, still expected movement that would never come. A cruel joke, some leftover coding in the human body that refused to accept loss.
That bastard recognized me because of this.
Because I was missing something.
