RoboticEmotion
"As soon as the bullet pierced his chest, he knelt to the ground, ears ringing from the deafening noise. The wiry-framed young man clutched the wound desperately, applying all the pressure his weakened arms could. His gaze focused on the woman who shot him. He glared, vision hazy, down the barrel of the handgun held by her, a nail with red polish still hovering over the trigger. He fell, defeated once and for all, landing with a thud, head hitting pavement, his own gun burrowing into his side. Charles was dead.
A black-suited man stood in his bathroom, staring out the slightly agape window, and down at the city below. His eyes glazed over in tears for what felt like the millionth time that day. He laughed as the tears fell, laughed at his apparent foolishness, knowing this was not funny. His own idiocy ended him up here, in his dark house, in this cold bathroom, squinting out the open window in the middle of winter. He would be dead soon, the medicine taking over his senses. As the city faded from view, so did Jackson."