“Youreyes?” I furrowed my brows. “What is that even supposed to mean?”
“My eyes,” he repeated, gesturing vaguely toward the target. “I have to look at this.”
I turned to the paper target. There were holes, alright. Just … not where they were supposed to be.
“It’s abstract,” I said.
“It is tragic.”
Sasha exhaled slowly, as though he was deciding whether to intervene or let Kyrill carry on being so obnoxious.
“Why is he even here? Can’t you just teach me?”
Kyrill snorted and looked at Sasha, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah,whyam I here?”
“Give it to him,” he said finally.
I frowned. “Give what to— oh.”
The gun.
“Be nice,” Sasha warned him. “This was your idea as much as mine.”
Wait, what?
“I am always nice.”
Sasha made a quiet sound suggesting this was far from the truth.
“I am also better shot,” Kyrill continued. “This is why I’m here. Your boyfriend knows I can teach you better than he can.”
Sasha clenched his jaw. “Allegedly.”
Kyrill scoffed and held out his hand, fingers flexing slightly in a silentwell?
I handed it over, after which Kyrill stepped forward and rolled his shoulders once before lifting the gun with an effortless familiarity impossible to miss.
This was his element.
His posture shifted and everything about him sharpened into something precise and controlled. The laziness disappeared. The boredom evaporated.
All that remained was danger. It was palpable and uncompromising.
He fired.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each shot was clean and controlled, hitting the exact spot on the target.
When he stepped back, I could only stare in awe.
“That was annoyingly skilled.” I huffed.
He handed the gun back without looking at me. “Again.”