His hand reached into his coat pocket as his phone buzzed. The screen lit up: a message from his sister.
Sister: Where are you? Did you fall into a manhole again? Come home, weirdo. I made curry. It's actually edible this time.
He chuckled, a short burst of warmth escaping his throat. "Curry roulette," he muttered fondly, replying with a simple thumbs up emoji before pocketing the phone again.
Then he took another step forward. That's when the hum of an engine behind him caught his attention. A sleek black SUV was trailing the curb slowly — too slowly. But he thought nothing of it. Cars slowed all the time, especially around sunset when people were distracted by their phones or the skyline.
Unbeknownst to Rony, the world around him was shifting gears. The calm wasn't calm at all — it was silence before the crash.
Inside the car were three people. The man in the front passenger seat wore a beige trench coat, his eyes hidden behind reflective glasses. He tapped something into a device on his lap. In the backseat, a woman in her mid-30s adjusted her earpiece, her expression unreadable. The driver, hands tight on the wheel, kept his eyes on the road ahead but occasionally glanced at the mirrors.
They weren't ordinary passengers.
They were the security convoy of a very important person. The black SUV wasn't trailing Rony by chance — it was part of a larger formation securing the passage of a political VIP heading across the bridge, just ten minutes ahead of Rony's route.
Somewhere far above, a sniper inhaled slowly and lined up his shot. His position was concealed expertly in a nearby building overlooking the entire path of the bridge. In his ear, a voice crackled through the comms.
Voice: "One clean shot. Head only. Window of six seconds. Target won't stop moving."
Sniper: "Copy. Calculating projectile path."
He adjusted the dial on his scope. Wind speed. Distance. Angle. Movement trajectory. The calculations danced in his mind like numbers in a symphony.
He didn't know, of course, that in less than a minute, one life would be changed forever.
Rony was still walking, oblivious. Still matching his steps to the music. Still smiling faintly as if the world hadn't broken him once. The sidewalk ahead curved gently into the bridge.
And then the sound came.
Crack.
The sniper pulled the trigger.
But the glass of the VIP's bulletproof vehicle was stronger than calculated. The bullet struck and created a spiderweb fracture, failing to penetrate. In the next half-second, all hell broke loose.
The car's escort team snapped into formation. A guard inside barked commands through a radio, and the convoy immediately began evasive maneuvers. Civilians nearby screamed and ducked.
The sniper cursed and adjusted his aim. He shifted the crosshairs.
Rony stopped.
He didn't understand what was happening. The sound had been sharp, like thunder cracking against steel. A second shot rang out. This one didn't go for glass.
The sniper aimed low — for a tire.
Bang.
The front wheel of the car burst with a hiss of smoke. The driver swerved hard right to avoid losing control, but it was too late. The SUV slammed into the guardrail of the bridge with a gut-wrenching metallic groan. Sparks flew.
Rony's eyes widened as he watched the scene unfold in front of him like a movie in slow motion. The vehicle jerked, hit the edge of a lamppost, and then…
Crash!
The crash was so sudden, so jarring, that Rony stumbled backward, shielding his face from the spray of debris. Shards of glass skittered across the pavement like marbles. People screamed, ducked, some ran the other way.
Then something much worse happened.
A jagged piece of bridge railing — a twisted metal pipe loosened by the impact — broke free like a javelin.
Time stood still.
The projectile, caught in the momentum of the crashing car and the collapsing barrier, spun midair like a blade from fate itself. It shot forward. Not toward the VIP.
But toward Rony.
He turned, his eyes wide. Too late.
Thunk.
A violent, sickening sound — the sound of steel colliding with flesh.
The pipe pierced Rony's right side, stabbing deep into his chest just below the collarbone, near the edge of his heart. The pain didn't hit immediately. He just gasped. The world spun sideways. The music in his earbuds kept playing as if unaware of the tragedy.
His knees buckled. The world turned into chaos — flashing lights, screaming voices, pounding footsteps.
He didn't understand what had happened.
All he knew was the warmth running down his side.
Blood.
He lifted his trembling hand and touched the wound. His fingers came away crimson.
Then the pain came.
Sharp. Radiating. Drowning.
He staggered, disoriented, clutching his side.
His mind screamed one thing — run.
He didn't know from what, or where to. His instincts simply screamed at him to move. Get away. Escape the chaos.
He stumbled forward, zigzagging past panicked pedestrians. His vision blurred, a dizzy filter clouding his eyes.
The VIP's security had already surrounded the car, guns drawn, shielding their principal. They were barking orders and pointing in every direction. They hadn't noticed him — he wasn't a threat. He was just collateral.
A mistake.
As Rony ran, he felt the metal shift inside him. The pipe hadn't gone clean through — it had lodged, splintered bones and torn muscle. Every movement was agony.
He bit his tongue to keep from screaming.
He crashed into a parked car and slid down behind it, using it as a shield.
Blood painted the concrete below. It pooled in thick, warm streams, his shirt soaked red. His breath came in rasps. His fingers trembled.
But he was alive.
Barely.
In the eerie silence that followed — the sniper already gone, the guards securing the perimeter, and the civilians in retreat — Rony sat there. Bleeding. Alone.
His vision darkened at the edges. His heartbeat thudded like a drumline in his ears.
And still, one earbud remained in. The music hadn't stopped.
He looked up at the darkening sky.
"...What just happened?" he whispered.
His lips tasted like metal.
And still… he was conscious.