Precision's Fatal Descent
"If you step off a ledge, gravity pulls you down. It’s not personal."
The stairwell was silent except for their voices—sharp, clipped, barely above a whisper.
She was still arguing. Still trying to explain.
"That’s not lying—"
He wasn’t listening. His expression never changed—calm, unreadable, but his fingers twitched. A subtle movement, barely noticeable, but a sign. The only sign.
Then, he moved.
It wasn’t a shove. It wasn’t frantic. There was no anger in it—just a quiet, calculated decision.
Vee’s foot missed the step.
The realization hit her too late—her hands shot out, reaching for something, anything—but he had already accounted for that.
His grip met hers for just a second, but not to save her.
To let go.
The moment stretched, like time itself resisted what was happening.
Then, her body broke through the air.
A sharp, gasping scream—cut off before it could finish. A sickening, solid crack as her skull met the concrete below.
And then, silence.
The world didn’t process it fast enough. But he didn’t even look down.
He turned. Adjusted his sleeve. Then, he looked up.
And I was there.
