The gunshot echoed in the small room, a final, definitive sound that seemed to linger in the air. For a moment, everything was still—time itself seemed to freeze in the wake of the blast. The door burst open, splintering as it hit the wall, and Dalton and his men rushed in, their faces pale, eyes wide with the dread of what they might find.
Dalton was the first to reach me, his footsteps heavy, each one landing with the weight of inevitability. His breath caught in his throat as he took in the scene—blood spattered across the walls, pooling on the floor beneath the lifeless body slumped in the chair. The pistol hung loosely from my hand, now limp, as if life had drained not just from me but from the weapon itself.
"Jesus…" Dalton whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. He approached slowly, kneeling beside me, his trembling hand reaching out to check for a pulse. But there was nothing. Just the cold, still skin of a man who had fought too long against the demons inside his own mind.
The other officers stood frozen, their eyes locked on the scene before them, unable to move, unable to speak. The room was thick with the stench of gunpowder and blood, a suffocating reminder of the life that had just been snuffed out.
Dalton closed his eyes, exhaling slowly as he withdrew his hand. He rose to his feet, glancing around the room, taking in the remnants of the struggle that had led to this. The overturned chair, the shattered glass, the bloodstains on the walls—everything told a story of desperation, of a man pushed to the edge by forces beyond his control.
"Get the paramedics," Dalton finally said, his voice hollow, devoid of its usual authority. But they all knew it was too late. No one moved to carry out the order.
Outside, the world continued as if nothing had happened. The sun still shone, birds still sang, and life went on. But inside that room, time had stopped, and all that remained was the silence of a life undone.
Dalton stared at the body for a long moment, his mind churning with thoughts he couldn't quite grasp. Was there something more he could have done? Was there a moment, somewhere along the way, where this fate could have been avoided? The questions haunted him, but the answers remained just out of reach.
Finally, he turned to the others. "Let's clean this up," he said, though the words felt empty. There was no cleaning up what had happened here—no erasing the final act of a man who had lost his battle with himself.
As they began their work, Dalton couldn't shake the image of my face, the look of resignation in my eyes as I pulled the trigger. It was a look he knew he would never forget, a reminder of the fragility of the mind, and the darkness that lurked within.
The room was quiet now, save for the soft rustling of the officers as they moved about. But for Dalton, the silence was deafening, a void that echoed with the weight of everything left unsaid.
And as he stepped outside, leaving the chaos behind, he couldn't help but wonder how many more would follow the same path—how many more would be lost to the shadows that had claimed Jack Mercer.