[She's up on the podium, talking about something for the good of the city, and--and he hasn't pulled the trigger yet, hasn't put a bullet through her head like he's supposed to. He doesn't know why, but there's a ghost of a time he can barely remember holding him back. (the scent of her hair reminding him of blue winter roses--)
Later, he'll wonder if it helped, somehow. But when he pulls the trigger, for once he isn't looking to kill. For once, he's looking to miss.
The shoulder. No vital organs there, and she'll have enough time for someone to get her to the hospital.]
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Later, he'll wonder if it helped, somehow. But when he pulls the trigger, for once he isn't looking to kill. For once, he's looking to miss.
The shoulder. No vital organs there, and she'll have enough time for someone to get her to the hospital.]