His hands are shaking, though through fear or uncertainty I cannot tell. I decide to simplify things. My own hands curl around my revolver and draw with the practised fluidity of thousands of hours of practice. Hammer drawn by a smooth movement from the thumb, aim levelled at his head with unwavering resolve.

“Drop the gun. You can still walk away from this.”
He shakes his head, eyes wide. Definitely afraid now. His hand works the slide with a distinct metallic clack. I quietly click the safety off of my own firearm, staring quite calmly into the dark eye of his gun barrel.

The afternoon sunlight drenches the scene, glinting dully off the barrels of both our weapons. His eyes are frantic, like a frightened rabbit, glancing around at everything and anything. Judging his intention is impossible. He looks at me and I can see his finger tighten on the trigger.

Some things stain even the beauty of hands forever.