I was told to take my pick. They pointed a gun at my head and told me to choose wisely, because I would only get one chance. There was the man with the shifting hazel eyes. He looked everywhere except for me. His stony gaze settled on the man with the gun. His face was cut and bruised, mangled I assumed because of his independence. He didn’t seem right for my choice. There was also the mexican boy, his sharp, dark features frozen in a fearful stare. He seemed the most nervous, but also the most conscious of the situation. He looked at everyone in the room with his terrified eyes and I had a feeling it wasn’t him either. Then there was the small gypsy girl. Her pale hair and soft eyes blended into her pale skin. Her bony limbs were lost within the gossamer shawl she clutched around her slim body. Her gaze was aimed directly for my eyes. Her eyes were almost ghostly in their pale gray haze. She had a sharp brow bone that her eyes were lost within, and the effect was stunning. She was different from the others. The man was clearly strong, he clearly knew what was coming and he was prepared to go down with a fight. The mexican was scared, hysteric even. But she was content, and so she was my choice. I pointed at her and looked to the gun welder, but she smiled faintly and held out her bejeweled hand. Her thin, white fist unclenched and there was the key that I had searched unfruitfully for. The sharp crack of the bullet flying through the air left the gypsy girl dead. Her blood splattered over her silky hair and the lone bullet hole in her forehead shone with a sinister glare. At least I was right.