The night was dark and silent, and the citizens of the city of light slept soundly in their [un/]comfortable beds (which was considered unusual before dreams became their only salvation) when a gun shot was heard.

We had just entered that street then, in our car on way back home, when two men running madly came into sight. One of them had a pistol with him, the other was empty-handed. One of them ran to take life, another to save it.

He was running fast; as fast as one would if they saw their death coming at any second’s difference, and his enemy was running faster—as fast as one would when his thirst for blood had blinded all his other senses…

I was shocked: it was just like a hunter and deer’s game, except that both were unfortunately humans here.

Whether he killed him or not, I cannot say. It is actually useless to hope for the latter but…
Did they put his body in a grave when they found him the next morning? Does his family know yet? Of course they do. In a city where deaths become a statistic, it is so predictable where you lost your loved ones. But what of the police who were busy inspecting random passers a distance away? Did they notice how a car had reversed in panic at the sight of it when they were too, just an instant away from being targeted?

Death often comes like that. It becomes a tragedy for the killer, the final stop for the runner, and a lesson for the living. ..