His Savior Was Never My Sister
Instead, he walked to a polished walnut cabinet, unlocked it, and drew out a single object: a sleek, nickel-plated revolver.
My breath hitched, but I didn’t move.
He opened the cylinder, showed me the six empty chambers. From his pocket, he produced a single, golden bullet. He slid it into a chamber, spun the cylinder with a smooth, practiced flick of his wrist, and snapped it shut. The final, metallic click echoed in the silent room.
He placed the gun on the low table between us.
“A final gamble,” he said, his voice eerily flat. “My life against your mercy. One chance in six. If the chamber is empty when I pull, you stay another day. We keep playing. If it fires… my interference ends. Perma