Point Blank in Noir

In dotted night, a cold hand draws its line, A silent lens of steel that will not blink. Behind dark shades, the face becomes a sign, Where fear and focus meet on ink-black brink. The air is grain, a storm of stubborn white, Each speck a pulse that tightens round the frame. No sirens sing—only the aimed twilight, And shadowed breath that whispers without name.