Chapter 91

Clyde's response was cryptic, a single numeral that reverberated with a chilling finality. "1," he uttered, his voice devoid of emotion, each syllable a harbinger of an impending confrontation.

As he again took a deliberate step forward, the air crackled with the tension of an imminent reckoning. His measured movements were like the ticking of a clock, counting down to an unfathomable conclusion. The world seemed to shrink, narrowing to the space between us—an arena where our mutual Hatred for each collided.

He was counting, counting to the fatal moment—three, the number that marked the culmination of his sinister design. Three, when his bullet would tear through the barrier between life and death.

As Clyde's actions unfolded, a chill crawled down my spine, freezing the air around us. His calculated movement, sliding his empty hand into his pants pocket, exuded an eerie confidence—an unsettling display of control in the face of impending chaos. Each step he took forward was a delibera