He held a small, black semi-automatic pistol in his right hand.

The steam was beginning to rise toward the high ceiling, clearing slightly near the concrete floor.

A dark shape appeared through the thinning fog ten feet away.

It was Killian.

He had his gun drawn, pointing it into the gray haze.

“Aries!” Killian shouted. “You cannot get out of here.”

He took a slow step forward, his boots clicking against the wet concrete.

The mist parted just enough for me to see him clearly.

He was wearing the charcoal three-piece suit I had tailored for him just three weeks ago.

His right hand held his primary weapon.

His left arm was bent slightly, resting near his chest.

I looked at the way his jacket hung.

My eyes locked onto the left breast of his coat.

I remembered the fitting.

I remembered the exact alteration he had insisted on.

*”Double the stitching on the inside left lining,”* he had told me. *”Make the pocket deep enough for a five-inch frame.”*

He did not just have the gun in his right hand.