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He glanced down at the person whose death he had just made sure of. Looking back up, he saw her again. Hadn't said a single word so far. Not that he was in much of a mood for conversation after what had just happened. Slowly, he raised the gun.

"I'm getting out of here," he said, wondering how many bullets the gun had in it. At least nineteen, maybe more if his benefactor was feeling particularly generous when the gun was fitted with a magazine. "Do you object to that, at all? Me leaving? I've already killed someone today. I don't want to have to do it again."
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Autoscopy · One-on-one Therapy