The police lights were unnecessary. I could see perfectly fine without them—blue, red, blue again, washing over North Ridge Government College as if color could turn this into an emergency instead of a conclusion. Ethan stood a few meters away with my stolen revolver trained on me, his grip rigid, with only one bullet left in the cylinder. Behind him, the officers shouted, their voices overlapping, frantic, aimed at the wrong man. I pressed my hand against my abdomen and felt the warmth spread through my fingers, slower than it should have been. Pain has a habit of exaggeration; I've never trusted it. I stayed on my feet anyway. Falling would have meant losing this very long battle of mine, and I wasn't about to let some so-called good-doer like Ethan best me at my own game.
They were positioned poorly. Too many weapons, not enough intention. The officers kept their guns raised, but their weight leaned backward, bodies already preparing for consequences instead of decisions. None of them wanted to be first. Ethan was different. His stance was controlled, deliberate, anchored in a way that suggested restraint rather than aggression. He was aware of every gun behind him, every command aimed at his spine instead of his target. That awareness wasn't helping him. It was slowing him down.
This would be remembered incorrectly. They would say the situation escalated because someone refused to comply, because a weapon was raised, because tension demanded release. They would focus on Ethan's choice as if it were the beginning rather than the interruption. Restraint is comforting to watch, especially when it delays responsibility. Everyone here believed they were preventing something worse. That belief would be enough to excuse what followed.
Ethan was running out of moments, even if he still believed he had time. His grip tightened, then steadied again, hesitation returning like instinct. He wasn't deciding whether to shoot. He was deciding whether he was allowed to. I adjusted my footing slightly—not enough to be noticed, just enough to account for what restraint always invites. People like Ethan don't lose control. They lose timing. And timing decides everything.
This isn't me regaining control. Control implies it was ever lost. This was written long before it happened—decisions anticipated, reactions measured, outcomes reduced to probability and patience. As long as I exist, the world will continue to behave exactly as it has been taught to. Not because I force it to, but because it has learned that this is how things work. I didn't create what came next. I understood it. And once understanding exists, action is nothing more than arithmetic.