Shot


In a dark basement, a single rifle round is being made. The shell is being cast from solid brass. The powder is being mixed from raw grain. The primer is being formed from sheet metal. All is now ready. All but the projectile.




A man opens the door from a staircase onto the roof of a skyscraper. He decisively approaches the edge, a black bag slung behind his shoulder. Sitting down on an AC unit, he brings the bag forth, carefully removing its contents onto a cloth after he lays it down. One by one he assembles the pieces from inside the bag until a single unit remains. A rifle. He removes himself from the seat, positioning himself behind it, with his weapon now resting as he was moments ago. The meticulous and calculating process of sighting in the scope ensues. Few clicks are heard, as compensation is minimal; with his skill, precision is an intuition. The math adds up. The scope is pointing where the shot will hit. With a care and steady hand akin to that of a transplant surgeon, a single round is drawn from the black bag and placed into the chamber. The man decisively slides the bolt forward. A loaded weapon.

The man eyes his potential targets with inhuman precision. One by one, identifying, tracking, and analyzing them. He decides against each one, until a particular option presents itself. She’s the one.

The safety is off.

A deep breath.

An exhale.

The index finger moves onto the trigger.





In an operating room, a man lies on a table. Myriad medical staff surround his center mass. Hands operate openly inside his chest; a delicate craft. Slowly, a raw, red piece is cut out with supernatural dexterity. It is lifted from the man’s chest, transported to an adjacent room, and placed perfectly into the bullet casing.





The man is seen from the front: rifle just behind the ledge, scope in line with the eye, and with his partially unbuttoned shirt, the top of a large, vertical scar is visible.

A deep breath.

An exhale.

The index finger moves onto the trigger.

The shot fires.