Chapter Text
New Grumpson was a dead city—eerily lifeless at night, as though the streets themselves held their breath. The only signs of life came from the shimmering Christmas lights strung along storefronts and lampposts, a faint and mocking echo of the season's festivities.
Two shadows moved across the rooftop of the department store, silent and deliberate. Their forms merged seamlessly with the darkness, their presence no more than a phantom whisper in the empty city. They were unseen and unnoticed, as they intended.
One of the figures crouched low, their sharp gaze fixed on the building across the street. They scanned the shadows lurking below, looking for any sign of life.
There was none.
New Grumpson wasn’t a city that drew people after dark: no nightlife to speak of, just weary travelers pausing for a brief rest or a mug of diluted caffeine between counties.
“The target’s here,” the crouched figure murmured, their voice barely audible over the wind.
The other shadow stood a few feet away, carefully assembling a sniper rifle with the practiced precision of a soldier. Metallic clicks and muted thuds punctuated the quiet as the weapon took shape—sleek, cold, and deadly.
“Got a clear line?” the standing figure asked, their tone short, almost grumpy. This wasn’t personal. It had to be impersonal.
They adjusted the scope with the confidence of someone accustomed to weapons.
The crouched figure straightened and stepped toward the edge of the rooftop, their boots silent on the concrete. They leaned forward, peering into the glowing windows of the building across the street, their breath visible in the winter chill.
“Clear as crystal,” they confirmed, their voice detached, belying the quickened thrum of their pulse. “You’ve got one shot. Make it count.”
“Sweetheart, you know I never miss.”
The sniper settled into position, their body folding into the rifle, as if the two were one. One eye pressed against the scope, the other squeezed shut. Through the lens, the target came into sharp focus: a figure in a dimly lit room, sipping from a cup, their mouth moving in what appeared to be an animated monologue. Oblivious. Clueless.
“Wind’s picking up,” the smaller shadow remarked, their voice low. It was a banal observation—or perhaps not.
“I’ve accounted for it,” the sniper replied curtly, their finger hovering over the trigger. Didn’t the other one trust him to fire a bullet? He was getting over it and going home. Clear shot. Bullet’s eye. But his finger hesitated for a second, despite the previous confident mindset.
The rooftop fell silent save for the faint whisper of the wind. Below, the city slumbered, oblivious to the life balanced on the razor’s edge of a single decision.
They were innocent, his conscience whispered.
So was his most precious one.
The sniper’s breath slowed, steadying. Beside them, the lookout mirrored the rhythm, as though their lungs shared the weight of the moment.
The crosshairs settled over the target. The seconds stretched, each one heavier than the last.
A single shot, and the Cleanse couldn’t happen in this timeline.