Page 95 of The Atom Between Us

“Yeah well neither do you,” I shot back.

He smiled and it wasn’t cruel.

For a fragile moment, there was only breath and silence.

Then the shot came.

It was different—cleaner, heavier. A rifle built not for riot control, but execution. The sound cracked the air so sharp it cut the world in two.

Stitch jerked, her body snapping back, then collapsing into the mud. For a heartbeat she just stared, shocked, as if the universe had pressed pause. Then blood bloomed across her chest, fast and arterial, soaking her shirt in seconds.

I screamed.

My hands were already there, pressing down, trying to seal the impossible. Her eyes found mine, pupils blown wide. Her lips moved, wet with red.

“Doc,” she whispered. A bubble of blood popped between her teeth. “Guess I’m… the fresh meat now.”

The second shot chewed into the dirt beside my head, spraying grit across my face. I jerked up, scanning the ridge line.

That’s when I saw him.

Petrov.

Standing on a raised platform above the wall, hands folded neatly behind his back. His posture was perfect, military to the bone. He didn’t even hold a weapon. The shooter stood beside him, faceless in the haze. Petrov only watched—calm, detached, as if he were marking entries in a ledger.

Rage blinded me.

I tore the rifle to my shoulder and fired. Once. Twice. Three times. The recoil rattled through my bones. All wide.

Petrov didn’t flinch.

I emptied the magazine, screaming, every shot wild with grief. The rifle clicked dry. My hands slipped in Stitch’s blood, my face streaked with tears and dirt.

Kang yelled from somewhere behind me “You idiot, he wants you standing. Stay down⁠—”

A third shot found me anyway. It tore through my shoulder, spinning me sideways. Pain exploded white-hot, then hollowed to nothing. My hands went slack, the rifle falling from my grip.

The world narrowed to a tunnel. Stitch’s body blurred beside me. The others cowered, clutching at the earth like it could swallow them whole. Kang’s face loomed close, eyes wide and burning.

He ripped his shirt, pressed the cloth to my wound, his voice breaking through the haze. “Stay with me. You don’t get to leave. Not now.”

I tried to answer, but no words came. Only blood and silence.

He lifted me—strong, unyielding—and half-dragged, half-carried me into the treeline.

My vision tunneled. Every heartbeat was slower, heavier, like a drum in water. Kang’s voice broke through the dark, fierce and ragged:

“Dee. Don’t you dare fucking quit.”

I tried to answer, but only blood filled my mouth.

Through the blur, I looked back one last time. Petrov was still there—perfect posture, hands behind his back, watching with the patience of a man who already believed the outcome was written. His eyes found mine across the distance. Unblinking. Icy. Certain.

Then the shooter lowered his rifle.

Petrov didn’t smile. He only turned away, as if I were already a name crossed off his list.

The world collapsed into black.