The Forest's Final Shots (Patreon)

The forest was quiet except for the crunch of leaves under her boots. She moved like a predator—lean, muscular, her black bra and leggings clinging to every curve of her toned body. The pistol felt heavy and right in her hand. She had come here to settle a score, gun raised, eyes sharp.

The first shot came from nowhere.

It punched into her upper chest, just above the lace edge of her bra. A small, dark hole appeared, instantly blooming with bright red. She staggered, breath catching, but didn’t fall. Her free hand flew to the wound as warm blood began to trickle down the swell of her breast.

She spun, gun up, firing wildly into the trees. Two more rounds answered her.

The second bullet tore into her left breast, the black fabric splitting as blood sprayed outward. The third struck lower, just beneath her sternum. She gasped, mouth falling open in a raw, animal cry. Her knees buckled for a moment before she forced herself upright again, gun arm shaking but still raised.

Pain flared through her torso with every heartbeat. She could feel the hot wetness spreading across her skin, soaking the bra, running in thin rivulets down her flat, sweat-slicked stomach. Her abs flexed and trembled as she tried to stay on her feet. Blood dripped from the three wounds, painting her body in crimson.

She leaned against a thick tree trunk, head thrown back, screaming at the sky. Her chest heaved, each breath sending fresh agony through the bullet holes. More shots came. One grazed her shoulder; another slammed into her upper chest again, creating a new, ugly entry point. She clutched the gun tighter, refusing to drop it even as her vision blurred.

Staggering forward, she collapsed against a massive fallen log. Her body slid down until she was half-sitting, half-lying, one arm draped over the mossy wood. Blood ran freely now, soaking the waistband of her leggings, pooling beneath her. Her face twisted in agony—eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream of defiance and suffering. The gun was still in her hand, finger twitching on the trigger.

A final, closer shot cracked through the woods.

It struck her forehead. A small, dark hole appeared between her brows. Her head snapped back against the log. Her eyes rolled, mouth still open in that last, frozen expression of shock and pain. The gun slipped from her fingers and clattered to the leaves.

She lay there, body arched slightly over the log, chest rising in shallow, wet gasps. Blood continued to seep from the five wounds across her torso and the fatal one in her head. Her skin glistened with sweat and crimson. Her perfect, athletic form—once powerful and deadly—now lay broken and beautiful in the dappled forest light.

Her fingers twitched once more. A final, soft exhale escaped her parted lips.

Then the forest was silent again.

She was gone.