She had been dead an hour, perhaps two. He had lost track of time after she collapsed bonelessly into his waiting arms, Bakura lowering the gun and watching with a trace of a frown on his face. The wound to her temple oozed blood in the minutes following her death, the imprint of the gun still lingering on her skin from the force with which Bakura had pressed it there.
“It was quick,” he had said after, placing the gun back in its holster. “But necessary.”