I’ve heard you for years. Black gloved knuckles breaking window. White plastic card slinking through lock. Brown leather boots tiptoeing up carpeted stairs.
What I hear next, after the metallic click of your weapon, is always the sound of my voice. Not screaming, not begging. But talking you out of it.
Because I write fiction, you see.
And a fictive world, misterpresident and misterlawmaker, is the only place in the world where victims can say something to stop their shooters.
P.S. If you see something, legislate something.