He’d said he’d take a bullet for her. Yes, it was trite and uninventive, but it had hit the feeling of sincerity in the moment. For it he was mocked, as she’d hated him that much, so much so that his life wasn’t worth anything to her, just a joke to be toyed with, betrayed, and shot. But she’d missed the real point, as she usually did, allowing her jaded conceptions, given by her crowd, to blind her to deeper meaning. For the bullets he’d meant were those who sought to mislead her, manipulate her, use her, betray her, hurt her, and to stop her from walking into another dungeon, with the truth no others would say for fear of her taking offense. However, he had not foreseen that those bullets were exactly what she sought, bearing her chest for any sniper with the right pedigree. And, instead of seeing his words as something she would never have from those hitmen, never spoken in earnest, she fired her own bullet into him, leaving a gaping wound she thought he should just get over, because she was used to sociopathy and narcissism and had adopted those same tactics, a willing target