A Quiet Life Denied

Elliot’s POV

It’s too quiet.

I sit in my chair, back straight, hands resting on the arms like I’m still some kind of king. The fire cracks in front of me, but I barely feel its warmth. The flicker glints off the untouched scotch in my glass. It’s been sitting there too long. I haven’t touched it.

The clock ticks behind me. Soft. Precise. Almost smug.

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Something’s wrong.

Even the fire sounds cautious. Like it doesn’t want to be noticed.

I reach for the drawer. Slow. My hand is steady, but my gut isn’t.

The pistol waits for me like an old friend I hoped never to need again. Polished. Loaded.

I wrap my fingers around it.

Click.

Safety off.