The Bullet That Missed Novels & Stories

“You think a bastard can rule over me?” The girl lets out a terrified sob, her shoulder twitching just an inch to the left. I fire. BANG!!! I blink through the smoke, expecting to see the shattered fragments of the apple raining down on the floor. But the fruit is rolling away, completely intact. The girl is silent. The bullet missed the apple entirely, tearing straight through the center of her forehead. Her eyes remain wide, frozen in permanent shock as her body goes completely limp, sliding down the brick wall like a broken doll before collapsing into a bloody heap on the floor.

He then kicked open the car door and rolled out while holding Waltz in his arms. It was almost at the same time that the truck ran into the Lamborghini. The fifteen-million-dollar luxurious car was instantly ruined, breaking into millions of pieces. “Damn it!” Black Skeleton cursed under his breath after realizing that the bullet had missed Alex. In the next moment, he aimed at his target and pulled the trigger once again. Bang! However, the bullet missed Alex again. Through his sniper scope, he could see that the man narrowly avoided the bullet in the fine line between life and death, as if he was possessed by a deity and could predict the danger.

"What?" "I missed the hit. Ethan pulled her close at the last second, some kind of instinct or luck, I don't know. The bullet hit a waiter instead. Waiter is dead, but Cynthia is alive." "No." The word came out strangled. "No, that's not… you said you were a professional. You said you never miss." "I never have missed before," he said, and now there was an edge of defensiveness in his voice. "But Walker moved her at the exact wrong moment. Or the exact right moment, depending on your perspective. Either way, she's alive."

The way her ass looked in that bedroom instantly overtook me My heart began to race. My palms, usually bone-dry, were sweating. I squeezed the trigger. Pfft. The bullet whistled through the air, but I’d flinched. It struck the stone bench inches from the man’s head. Panic erupted instantly. Security swarmed, covering him and rushing him toward the exit. I sat there, stunned. I had missed. I couldn't remember the last time I’d missed a shot.

The bullet missed. By inches. By a breath. By the grace of a God who clearly had a sick sense of humor. It embedded itself in the wall behind Henry's head — close enough to singe his thinning hair, close enough to make him flinch. But not close enough to kill him. Martha's hands were shaking. "I missed," she whispered. "I never miss." "Your hands are old," Henry said. His voice was steady. Calm. Like someone had just complimented his tie. "Just like the rest of you."

“Any deterioration since the last report?” “Minimal,” he replied. “But the window is closing.” She swiped through imaging as the city blurred past the window. Narrow streets. Old buildings. Sunlight catching on stone she had once walked without fear. “This graze,” she murmured, enlarging the scan. “It’s precise.” “Yes,” the man said carefully. “The bullet missed what it should have destroyed.” Or hit exactly what it was meant to. She didn’t say it out loud. “Previous surgical attempts?” she asked.

"But you’ve left me no choice. If it’s either me or you, then you already know your fate." An agonizing moment passes. I stand perfectly still, my heart hammering against my ribs, looking down the barrel of the gun. At the very last second, he slightly shifts his aim and fires. The bullet cuts through the air, inches from my ear, and shatters the designer lamp on the desk behind me. Shards of ceramic rain down. It’s a warning shot. He intentionally missed.

The hunters fire. Not simultaneously. Staggered. Precise. Silver tears through air. I do not raise my hand. I do not speak. I do not glow. I simply adjust perception. The bullets do not vanish. They simply miss. By inches. By degrees. By the smallest margin required to maintain illusion. Concrete shatters behind us. Metal sparks. But neither of us falls. The hunters freeze. Confusion fractures their rhythm. They adjust again. Faster this time. One pulls something from his belt.