Author: Mark Renney

The bullet passed straight through him. Of course it did, he was a Hollow but he was the latest model, state of the art, the most efficient and lifelike replica on the market right now.

Lenny groaned, because to all intents and purposes at that particular moment in time, he WAS Lenny. He grasped at the wound, creating more than a little blood and allowed it to seep through his fingers and drip onto the carpet as he too dropped onto his knees.

The gunman stepped closer, both arms outstretched with the gun pointed directly at Lenny’s head. The next bullet was destined for his brain.

Lenny didn’t recognise the man.

‘I don’t know you,’ he said, pleading, ‘you don’t know me. Why are you doing this? You don’t have to do it; you don’t have to cross this line.’

Looking up, Lenny saw the man’s face had turned deathly pale and his hands were shaking. Hell, Lenny was enjoying this too damn much, relishing the subterfuge, enjoying his own performance. The plan wasn’t to survive this, to come through it.

Groaning again, he dropped his head, avoiding the gunman’s stricken face, his eyes.

‘Just do it,’ he barked, ‘come on you pussy, just do it.’

And he did, he pulled the trigger and Lenny dropped back. This was the easy part for a Hollow, playing dead, laying lifeless and dormant.

An older hitman, a more experienced assassin, would have leant over the body and checked for a pulse, two fingers just below the ear. But this young man, still shaking, was already fleeing the scene.

Lenny stopped recording. He had all he needed and his revenge was going to be oh, so sweet.