His raincoat fell open. Tucked in an inside pocket was a small clay Reaper.
Jaen Songok lay on his back, breathing hard. He tried to rise, couldn't. The bitch had won this game, God damn her, and now there was nothing in his private universe but pain, and he found he didn't like pain very much when it was his own.
The ceiling panel was kicked loose, and a moment later Go Ara dropped down onto the desk. She hopped off and stood looming over him. The wind from the shattered window tossed her hair.
She aimed the revolver at him with both hands. The hammer snapped back.
"No," Jaen Songok whispered, forcing speech like paste through frozen lips. "Don't."
"Why not?" Her voice was ice. "Give me one reason."
He could think of no reasons, none at all, except that he couldn't die this way, as the loser of the contest, as a failure. A failure.
"Please," he moaned, hating to beg but afraid not to.
