He tosses the lighter into the rain. It hits the ground. No explosion. Just silence.
Xander flicks the lighter. Once. Twice. No flame. Just sparks.
Xander stands. Pours cheap whiskey onto the concrete. A Kannada ritual he learned from a fallen friend in Bengaluru.
– The lighter, half-buried in mud. A tiny flame flickers once. Then dies.
For Sebastien. The fastest finger. The quietest goodbye.
The lighter belonged to SEBASTIEN. The sniper with the ghost’s eyes. The man who pulled the trigger without breathing.
(to the night) Fight’s not the same without the ghost. But I’ll carry your scope in my ribs. Always.
Sebastien, perched on a crane, wind slicing his hood. He doesn’t look at Xander. Just whispers into comms: "Don’t miss me, brother. Miss the shot."