The click of the safety coming off was loud in the quiet room.
Matthew stopped mid-step.
Slowly, deliberately, Kieran pulled the gun from inside his jacket and raised it—not with rage, not with trembling hands, but with a strange, exhausted steadiness. The barrel pointed straight at Matthew's chest.
Time seemed to stretch, thin and fragile.
Neither of them moved.
Outside, the world kept breathing. Somewhere far away, a car passed. A bird called. Inside the study, silence pressed in so tightly it hurt.
"Kieran," Matthew said softly. Not a command. Not a threat. Just his name.
Kieran's jaw clenched. His hand shook now, the tremor finally betraying him. His eyes shone, glassy, unfocused, as if he were looking through Matthew instead of at him.
"I can't," Kieran whispered.
Matthew didn't reach for his gun. He didn't signal the guards. He knew—he knew—Kieran wouldn't shoot him. Not in a thousand lifetimes.
"You don't have to do this," Matthew said. "Put it down."
