About this drama
Three minutes ago, the muzzle pressed my forehead. Three minutes later, he knelt in snow, shirt torn, blood-drenched, begging me to touch his scars—all bullets I took for him. His once-feared eyes were now bloodshot and breaking. “Scarlett, touch me one more time.” I stood over him, disgusted. “Vincent,” I said, looking down. “A hundred things you asked—I’ve paid them all.”
