No words. No dialog exchanges.
This isn't a stage for altruism, no heroic sermon before the clash.
The wolfman lunges again. Faster this time.
His claws slice through the air, a single arc aimed to open A's stomach like a butcher parting flesh from skin.
A's eyes track it.
He pivots with sudden, twisting his body sideways as though the floor itself has spun.
The claw rakes through empty air, grazing only fabric, shredding only the long coat.
In the same motion, his revolver arm drops low, bent at the elbow, ready to fire point-blank at the beast's exposed flank.
Bang!
A perfect shot slams into the wolfman's side. The impact should cripple, but the beast hardly flinches. Eyes wild. Grin still plastered across its animalistic face.
Then It pivots instantly, claw snapping toward A.
But A doesn't retreat.
He dips low, sliding one boot across the floorboards in a sharp sidestep.
The wolfman's claw passes inches above his cap, shredding the wall instead.
Splinters spray, dust fills the air.
And B doesn't waste the opening.
He charges forward, no hesitation, body leaning into the strike like a locomotive given flesh.
His gloved fist cocks back, then drives forward with violent simplicity, straight into the wolfman's snout. The blow lands with a thud like stone against bone, snapping the beast's head to the side. It isn't elegant. It's raw force, the kind that comes from years of breaking bodies until fists learn where to land.
But they forgot the blind gunman!
Bang!
Another shot tears through. The bullet finds the wolfman's body, direct hit. But no pain, no stagger. The monster's hide spits the round back like metal spitting sparks.
The ricochet screams, ricocheting off flesh as though it struck a steel plate, sparks trailing in a vicious arc. It slices across the ceiling beam, skips off the iron hinge of the doorframe, and redirects with murderous precision!
Downward, toward A's arm!
Too fast. It's accelerating beyond human measure!
A twists his wrist at the last second, forcing his forearm forward like a shield.
The bullet tears into the lower flesh instead of ripping through the joint. He lets the momentum carry his arm aside.
The recoil jars him, but he absorbs it, grinding his teeth, refusing to give the blind man the satisfaction of a scream.
You're transfixed.
If you were there. You wouldn't last. Not a minute. Not even seconds.
You'd be torn apart before your mind could response.
Bang!
The blind marksman fires again.
This one is clean. No ricochet, no wild angle. A bullet streaks straight for B's skull, the kind of shot that ends things.
But B tilts at the last heartbeat, his whole torso snapping sideways.
The round whistles past his ear, close enough to tear strands of hair. His body doesn't stumble; it flows with the dodge.
The wolfman doesn't wait.
He lunges, seizing the opening. His weight slams into B's chest, both bodies crashing to the floor with a quake. Wood cracks beneath them.
The beast's jaws snap open, saliva hanging in strings, fangs glistening as they dive for B's throat.
The wolf's breath floods the air.
Hot. Rotten. Stink.
It clamps down, trying to end the fight in one bite.
Bang!
The shot rips the air apart. A's revolver steady, eyes like iron.
For a second, the world holds its breath.
The wolfman's head jerks mid-snarl, fangs still bared, inches from tearing into B's throat.
The bullet drills through fur and bone with a crack, the impact snapping the beast's skull in slow motion.
Blood and shadow burst, spattering the room as the wolf's body stiffens, then collapses.
The silence afterward is unbearable, one heartbeat stretched into eternity, the kind that makes you wonder if the shot really landed, if the monster will rise again.
Then it hits the floor. Hard. The boards shudder beneath the weight, and the smell of iron thickens the room.
A exhales through his nose, lowering his weapon with military precision. His voice cuts through the stillness, gruff, weathered with fifty years of command:
"You owe me dinner."
B lies beneath the carcass, grinning even as he shoves the weight off. His tone is lighter, edged with youth. Twenty-five, maybe younger.
"Fine, senior."
"It was unexpected," the blind marksman speaks, voice flat but certain.
"He had little experience… but who would've thought he'd die that easily."
The words reverberate through you, though you're not even there.
Instead, you feel it. That familiarity rising again, threading itself into your veins. Nostalgia, no—
That's too gentle. Trauma.
Your eyes sting, and suddenly you see.
White fog, spilling fast, filling the hall where moments ago claws and bullets tore the air.
It's here.
Your breath clutches your throat as the haze touches you.
And the blind man's voice lingers in it, stretched, distorted, as though carved into the mist itself:
"At least… I'll take one of you with me."
A curse.
A death sentence wrapped in white fog.
Crack...
A staggers, a grunt tearing out of him despite the discipline in his chest. He drops to one knee.
The sound is unmistakable, it's a bone splitting under lead.
A wound blooms red along his leg.
But from your vantage... you see it!
Not the leg he's clutching. The other one.
The shot landed there, you're sure. Clear as day.
And yet A's own eyes dart down. His hand presses the wrong wound, his body convinced of pain that shouldn't be there.
Your pulse spikes.
You know this.
You remember that sensation. Yesterday.
When your body faltered against something unseen.
But this time is different.
You see it now. The wound as it truly is and the phantom injury his body insists on carrying.
Your vision strips the false layer away.
What remains is a cretain reality.
It is your power. You're sure of it now.
The haze no longer blinds you; it bends for you, shows you what it hides. Every illusion, every misdirection, laid bare in white.
And within it he waits. The Blind Shooter.His fog is his kingdom. Here, he is predator and executioner.
If those two men die… you know exactly what comes next. You'll lose your only chance to slip his net.
And worse: if you intervene clumsily, if you reveal yourself, they'll see you. Not just as some scared bystander, but as what you are—A Bearer.
That cannot happen.
You crouch in the dimness of your room, thoughts cutting fast.You know how he hunts. How this fog bend the senses, how bullets ricochet and hit its target, how every step you take echoes in the wrong direction.
This is a puzzle.
You've seen his tricks.You've survived them. Once.
By luck.
Now, you need to use that knowledge.To tilt the fight, to make him falter without eyes drawing to you.
Because if the Blind Shooter dies, you live.And if he wins…
Consider you're already dead.