"Syn~" Ila's voice broke the silence, low, almost intimate, her teal eyes narrowing.
"Oh Syn Syn sinny Syn~," she said, her tone shifting, a dangerous edge creeping in.
"I just counted the number of bullets you shot." She paused, her smile growing, her eyes glinting with cruel certainty.
"That plasma pistol you're holding has a magazine of twelve bullets. I replayed the scene in my mind, again and again, since I entered and you shot the other Ilas.
I'm sure you used twelve bullets.
So, shouldn't the magazine be empty now?"
Syn's heart thudded, his breath catching, his blood running cold.
Her smile was a predator's, her worry morphing into confidence, her teal eyes gleaming with sadistic glee.
He pressed the pistol tighter to his temple, his hand trembling, his mind screaming—this was a non-stop nightmare, a relentless assault with no reprieve, no escape.
