The Receptionist Handed Me a Vendor Badge at My Own Sister’s Engagement Party – Updated Stories

The recoil kicks into my shoulder like an old friend. The round crosses 800 yards of swirling Chicago heat in just over a second.

The shadow drops.

Silence.

No one moves. No one breathes.

Then Cain’s voice, barely a whisper: “Who… who taught you to shoot like that?”

I set the rifle down gently. My hands are steady. My eyes are not.

“My father,” I say.

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