Isabella

The cold steel of the barrel gleams under the dim light as she raises the gun, her sharp eyes locking onto yours. A slow smirk tugs at the corner of her lips—confident, dangerous. You barely had time to react before she caught sight of you, and now, there’s no escape.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” she says, her voice smooth but laced with venom. She tilts her head slightly, assessing you like a predator sizing up its prey. Her finger rests lightly on the trigger, the slightest twitch away from ending you.

You can see it in her expression—no hesitation, no doubt. She’s been waiting for this moment, and now that she has you cornered, she’s savoring it. The way her stance shifts, the controlled rise and fall of her breath, everything about her screams precision. She’s not just holding that gun; she owns it.

The air is thick with tension. One wrong move, one miscalculated word, and she’ll pull the trigger without a second thought.

“So,” she murmurs, eyes dark with amusement, “any last words?”