“Fire the gun!”
“Don’t worry about where it’s aiming, just fire!”
As Mista’s consciousness began to fade, the only thought echoing in his mind was this absurd instruction. He decided to trust this voice, even though his arm was pinned down, unable to lift the barrel or point it at the silver-haired man behind him. He could only painfully maneuver his arm, extending the barrel just a little from under his body.
Bang!
With a crisp sound, the bullet, carrying Mista’s last hope, shot out. The barrel had been pressed parallel to the ground, which under normal circumstances, would cause the bullet to fly straight for a short distance before hitting the ground and ricocheting.
But this situation was far from normal.
Ordinarily, a bullet would behave like an untamed horse, its path uncertain. However, this bullet was ridden by three small “knights” — Mista’s Stand, Sex Pistols. Leading the charge was No.1, accompanied by No.2 and No.3, who skillfully directed the bullet’s trajectory.
The bullet, instead of flying straight, made a sudden upward arc, reminiscent of the nuke Iron Man redirected in “The Avengers.” It turned 270 degrees in mid-air before plummeting down towards Abbacchio’s head.
“What the…?”
Abbacchio noticed Mista’s action and heard the unusual whistling overhead. Instinctively sensing danger, he released his hold on Mista and rolled sideways.
The bullet, having its speed reduced by the sharp turns, narrowly missed Abbacchio’s head, instead grazing his arm. His beloved black coat was torn, and fresh blood spurted out.
“His gun was pointing in the opposite direction! How did the bullet hit me?!”
Abbacchio’s face turned grim, not from pain, but from realizing Mista’s Stand ability:
“This guy can control bullet trajectories!”
This ability was terrifying. Most Stand users were flesh and blood, vulnerable to bullets. Facing a sharpshooter with homing bullets was a nightmare. Moreover, Abbacchio’s Stand, Moody Blues, was more suited for support and reconnaissance, not combat.
“Damn!”
Abbacchio cursed internally. His sneak attack had been strong enough to knock out a bull, yet this resilient sharpshooter had withstood it. Engaging in close combat was futile; Mista could shoot without aiming, and running away was pointless, as no one could outrun a bullet.
As his mind raced, Mista, now free, was catching his breath. Still adjusting, he didn’t immediately shoot again, giving Abbacchio a moment to think.
In a flash of inspiration, he devised a plan.
“Die!”
Abbacchio yelled, diverting Mista’s attention. Instead of a punch, he flung a handful of his own blood at Mista’s eyes. Instinctively, Mista shielded his eyes, but some blood seeped through.
“Using blood to blind me? Pathetic!”
“But you missed one thing…”
Mista, wiping the blood from his eyes, raised his gun:
“Even if I’m blind, my bullets will still hit you!”
Having fully awakened his Stand, Mista felt a rush of understanding about his powers and the name of his Stand:
“Go, disable his limbs—”
“Sex Pistols!”
At his command, Mista fired twice, No.5 and No.6 riding the bullets towards Abbacchio. Unlike before, they aimed for non-lethal targets — his arms and legs.
By now, Abbacchio had run several meters. Utilizing his blood trick to create a momentary distraction, he fled towards the rubble. Mista’s bullets, guided by his Stand, twisted through the air. Despite Abbacchio’s evasive maneuvers, the bullets still grazed him, drawing blood.
Though not fatal, the pain hindered Abbacchio’s escape, slowing him down significantly.
“Stop!”
Mista shouted, his gun trained on Abbacchio:
“I’ll shoot again!”
Hearing the warning, Abbacchio didn’t stop. Mista, determined not to miss this chance, aimed for another shot. But then, Abbacchio stopped.
Mista halted, cautiously pointing his gun:
“Giving up?”
“No.”
Abbacchio, clutching his injured arm, slowly turned:
“Watch closely…”
“Punk, you’re the one in a trap now!”
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