"Put the gun down, Abigail," I said. My voice was suddenly steady, the frantic drumming in my chest cooling into a cold, hard focus. I took a slow step forward, not enough to trigger her reflex, but enough to close the distance. "You don't want to shoot me. Not really."
"Don't tell me what I want," she hissed, her eyes narrowing over the iron sights. "This is the end of the road, Druski. This is where your miserable, lucky streak finally runs out."
I let out a slow, deliberate sigh, shaking my head. "Come on, Abigail. We both know what this is really about. Let's stop pretending."
She didn't flinch. She didn't smile. She just stared at me with that icy, assassin's gaze, her finger still ghosting over the trigger.
"This isn't about Monet, is it?" I asked, my voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur that echoed through the hollow warehouse.
"What?" she asked, a flicker of genuine confusion breaking through her mask of stone.
