When the Bullet Missed

He held the gun like it was part of him—

not something he carried,

but something that carried him through every dark alley he had crawled out of.

His name was Sameer.

Nobody called him that anymore.

Out here, they called him Ghost—

because he moved without sound, vanished without a trace,

and left nothing behind but fear.

Sameer hadn’t planned on becoming a man like this.

He didn’t grow up dreaming of guns and payoffs.

He wanted to be a history teacher.

He used to write notes in the margins of library books

and sketch his future on the backs of candy wrappers.

But dreams are expensive.

When his father died,

his school closed its gates.

And when the world stopped listening to him,

he learned how to make it afraid of him instead.

The job tonight was simple.

Find the man.

Deliver the warning.

Make sure he remembered it with his bones.

The client was angry.

The target was late on payments.

And Ghost never left things undone.

It was raining hard.

Sameer liked the rain.

It made things blur—sounds, footprints, guilt.

He climbed the cracked stairwell of the old housing block,

water dripping from his sleeves.

Apartment 3B. That was the one.

He knocked once, the way they taught him.

Hard. Flat. Sharp.

A pause.

Then the door creaked open,

not by the man—

but by his little girl.

She must’ve been six, maybe seven.

Small frame. Big eyes.

A school uniform two sizes too big, torn at the sleeve.

She looked up at him and blinked.

“Papa’s fixing the fan,” she said softly.

He froze.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

There weren’t supposed to be children.

But now she was already walking back in.

Sameer followed.

The room was tiny. One bulb. One bed. One floor fan, half-disassembled.

The man—the target—was kneeling in the corner,

hands greasy with broken wires.

He looked up and nodded.

No panic.

No excuse.

Just... acceptance.

The woman—his wife, presumably—

was feeding rice to the little girl, who sat cross-legged on a mat.

They didn’t scream.

Didn’t beg.

Sameer had seen people cry and plead and fight.

But never this—

this silence.

It rattled him more than any scream.

He pulled out the gun anyway.

He had to.

He aimed low—just a warning shot, maybe.

Just enough to scare the man straight.

But then, the girl looked up at him and asked:

“Uncle… is that toy real?”

Her mother gasped softly and pulled her close.

But Sameer…

he couldn’t breathe.

His finger trembled on the trigger.

For a second—just a second—he imagined his younger self

sitting in that room,

watching someone with a gun decide who would sleep and who wouldn’t.

The shot rang out.

One bullet.

It struck the wall, inches above the man’s shoulder.

Dust scattered. The child dropped her spoon.

No one moved.

No screaming. No running.

Just heavy silence.

Sameer turned and walked out.

Fast. Head down. Chest hollow.

He didn’t remember the stairs.

Didn’t remember the street.

Only that he kept walking

until the buildings ended

and the highway swallowed the city behind him.

He slept under a construction site that night,

gun still warm in his jacket,

heartbeat still louder than traffic.

He knew what would happen.

The gang would find out.

There were no second chances for cowards.

But something in him refused to care anymore.

That shot—

the one that missed—

was the first thing he’d done in years

that felt right.

Over the next few weeks, he disappeared.

Got rid of the gun.

Cut his hair.

Erased the name Ghost from every wall it had ever been whispered on.

He took a job hauling crates in a market.

No one recognized him.

Or maybe they did—

but they no longer feared him.

He didn’t mind.

One afternoon, six months later, he walked past a stall near the mosque.

It sold used electronics and cooling fans.

The man behind the stall looked familiar.

So did the child beside him,

counting coins like it was a magic trick.

The same man.

The same girl.

Smiling.

Safe.

Sameer didn’t stop.

Didn’t wave.

Didn’t let them see him.

He just stood behind a pole,

watching quietly.

Like a ghost who had finally learned

how to live again.

Sometimes, the strongest act isn't pulling the trigger.

It's walking away with your soul still intact.