Chapter Text
Llewelyn hangs up the phone with a sharp slam. He strikes the receiver once, twice, three times. A nurse eyes him nervously from the hallway, and he exhales, heavy. He wants to hit something, light a cigarette, but he remembers where he is and closes his eyes.
He wonders if he acted too soon.
No, it’s fine. He’ll make it out of this.
Hours pass, and he knows he has to leave as soon as possible. He hadn’t planned to spend his weekend in a hospital across the border, but the way things have turned out, he’s starting to suspect he’ll have to expect anything if he keeps hanging on to those two million. The bullet wound in his side still burns with every step. The bruising has spread to his ribs, but he’s alive. He’s alive, and he’s sure that bastard didn’t walk away unscathed either.
He remembers the drops of blood on the pavement, the hush of boots retreating into a dark alley.
Before leaving, he looks at the bouquet of flowers on the nightstand. The petals are already dry, scattered across the floor. Carson Wells is dead, and if he doesn’t think his next move through, he’ll be next on that twisted list.
He can’t help but replay the words through the phone, that low voice. He knows the tone—cold, calculated. He won’t let it get to his nerves, but as time goes on, he figures he’ll need a better plan. Not just for the money. Not just to stay alive. For Carla Jean, still sleeping peacefully, unaware of the madman that might be closing in.
He manages to cross back into his country with nothing but boots and a hospital gown. He dresses clumsily in a clothing store—shirt, jeans, a new hat. He wraps a bandage around the gunshot wound twice, pulling it tight across his torso to dull the pain. He drinks a coffee that brings color back to his face, and once he’s sure he can move properly, he returns to the border to retrieve the briefcase, still hidden in the brush.
With the money in hand, his scattered, impulsive thoughts start to take shape, but he tries to keep a cool head. He won’t die—not now. He can’t afford to. He even thinks, for a moment, about leaving it all to luck. Calling his wife, meeting her somewhere safe, planning an easy way out. A flight, whatever it takes.
He thinks about it for a long time while the briefcase weighs heavy in his hand. He won’t do it. He knows that. He still has to deal with that loose end. Still, he calls her the moment he finds a payphone.
He hears the tenderness encrypted in her voice and asks her to go somewhere safe. Another hotel, far away, until things settle down. But he won’t be part of that plan—not yet.
He books her a room, a random number. The receptionist will have a key and a letter for her—a direct message. He also hides some of the money in the air vent. Enough for a few years of decent living. He makes sure to mention it in the letter, along with something like what he’s already told her: If you don’t hear from me, assume I’m with my mother.
He hopes she can read it with a smile, not through a face streaked with tears. Shit , he hopes she never has to read it at all. That everything works out, and they can meet again soon.
It’s not the first time he’s thought of something reckless. Taking off with the money after a failed shootout is proof enough. In Vietnam , that kind of strategy saved him more than once—got him out of a few guaranteed deaths. But now, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t even realize it until he sees the hotel across the street.
The hotel where Wells died.
No cops, nothing out of the ordinary. He figures the body’s already gone, the scene cleaned, and the man he’s after is probably far away by now.
He stays there for a moment, watching, searching for a way to make contact. Every now and then, he glances over his shoulder, like he might hear those boots again. That heavy breathing. A clean shot.
He’s not in control this time, but maybe he can use the tracking to his advantage. It’s safe to believe the man is close, lying in wait after a negotiation cut short by Moss’s own pride.
Maybe he’s expecting another call. A change of heart.
Maybe he anticipated it. Or maybe he ended the offer the moment Moss mocked him—reckless, like always.
He adjusts his hat and crosses the street to the hotel. There aren’t many options left but to let himself be found. He hopes staying there sends a clear message.
The front desk looks dark, empty; what happens to business after a murder.
He asks for a room on the second floor, something that lets him watch the street from the window. He can’t help but wonder which room the massacre happened in, how much blood he decided to spill. Whether he’s sadistic or meticulous, whether he enjoys it or does it out of duty. All rooms tend to look the same, and he imagines the scene enough times to start losing his grip.
He sighs and thinks about hiding one of his guns for quick access. Still, he doesn’t expect the man to come in and kill him right then, even if that sounds like a real possibility.
He knows the man isn’t stupid—he’ll want a deal on his own terms. He won’t risk falling into a trap.
Llewelyn holds on to that idea with conviction; otherwise, he wouldn’t be standing on the edge of such an abyss. So he leaves a clear message at the front desk: If a man asks for me, give him my room number.
He doesn’t wait long. Night falls as it always does, but the alert never fades.
He takes a bath and cleans the wound with illusory calm. When he’s done, he looks at himself in the fogged-up mirror and immediately sees the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor from blood loss. He changes the bandage with two precise wraps and tightens it. Then, he applies ointment over the new bruises marking his skin and watches the bloodied waste pile up at the bottom of the trash can.
For a moment, he remembers fragments of his youth.
He paces the room, unable to sit down despite the sharp ache in his side. He’s spent too long in hotels and motels and already feels like something that doesn’t belong—someone in a constant state of transition, with no destination. He almost misses the trailer, the cramped space of his room. Thinks of Carla Jean again, then drums his fingers with his arms crossed.
It’s close to midnight when the call comes in, a sordid tone. He lets the phone ring for a few seconds and braces himself before picking up the receiver.
He doesn’t speak first.
Complete silence, then a deep breath. A kind of restrained frustration.
“This won’t get you anywhere.”
“You’re hard to reach.”
“You made your choice.”
“I changed my mind.”
A long pause follows.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to gather his thoughts. He doesn’t want to look out the window—the possibility of that figure standing intact in the dark.
He takes a breath and speaks again.
“I have the money. I’ll take the deal.”
“You’re not in a position to offer anything. You missed your chance.”
“You called anyway.”
Another silence. Moss finally sits at the edge of the bed, his leg bouncing as he waits for a reply.
“You picked the wrong place.”
“I know. You’re not coming up here.”
“No.”
He holds his breath, about to say something else, but the voice cuts in.
“Agave Inn Motel. Guess the room. Tomorrow at this time, you’ll place the money at my feet”
He doesn’t get a chance to respond. The line disconnects the moment the last word drops.
He wants to slam the phone again—but doesn’t. Takes a cautious breath and hangs up. Then moves quickly toward the window. The street looks empty. Not a soul in sight. Still, the presence lingers, and Moss feels a chill crawl up the back of his neck.
He needs to act fast.
Llewelyn doesn’t sleep that night, and a thought keeps screaming that he should’ve enjoyed what might’ve been his last nap. He sighs and rubs his face. He can’t let himself fall into those thoughts—persistent as the invisible presence stalking him.
Before leaving, he looks out the window again; nothing but the morning light and the promise of long hours until the meeting. He’s bet everything on that time, granted to him by a stroke of luck. So he keeps calm and leaves the hotel before the sun reaches its peak.
He travels by taxi, hitchhikes—only cares about getting from one store to the next, shaving off minutes.
He finds a rusted farm supply store three miles out of town. Buys fertilizer and ammonium nitrate. Asks for it like he knows what he’s doing, like it’s just something for the next planting season or to treat dry soil. Later, he gets Diesel at a gas station—a small gallon he transfers into a plastic bottle. Walks a few more miles to a hardware store and buys a PVC pipe, steel wool, a flashlight, and duct tape.
He moves quickly, faster than he expected, and scans the path behind him with practiced eyes. Keeps looking over his shoulder, always with the heavy sense of a scope locked on his back.
He gets into another vehicle, and the driver complains about the smell. Moss figures he’ll need to change before the meeting and stores everything in a plastic bag. He stops at another motel by noon, rundown and sitting at the desert’s edge. Dim, with small rooms. Pays less for the stay than for the materials.
The bed creaks when he drops each item and stares at them laid out across the blanket. He’s never done this before, but he knows the procedure with a precision that surprises him.
Places the briefcase at the edge of the bed and separates the bills into stacks. Counts mentally what he’s lost, certain he’ll be asked for the total. He’s almost surprised by how quickly the money’s vanished—hotels, food, clothes, materials. Needs born from the very act of carrying it.
Slides each bill across the bed with an unreadable face, until he reaches the usual false bottom. Thinks about how stupid he was not to check the bills that first day. Not to notice the obvious tracker.
Shakes his head and arranges what’s left, no new regrets.
Strips off his shirt and hangs it in the bathroom to avoid soaking it.
He pours the white granules into a container and adds the oil with one eye closed. No more than fifteen percent, he estimates. Stirs it with a spoon until it becomes something gray and greasy. A metallic, rusty smell hits him all at once as he packs the mixture into the pipe. He tamps the edges down with the handle of a knife and seals the opening. Slides in a steel filament. Strips a copper wire with his teeth and coils it. Solders one end to a battery terminal, the other to a switch he’s pulled from the flashlight.
He tests it quickly—sparks jump across his chest. A joyless grimace. The process is taking too long.
He reinforces the suitcase’s compartment with black tape and hides the trigger. The wiring disappears beneath the lining like veins under skin. He returns all the bills to their place and spends a few minutes mourning the loss of such an obscene amount.
He finishes the procedure as night falls. Closes the suitcase and lifts it a couple of times, checking the weight to make sure it won’t raise suspicion. Sets it on the floor and stares at it.
A stillness that drags him into looping thoughts, rehearsing every possible outcome.
He washes his hands, trembling. Black water runs between his fingers and under his nails. Oil clings to the folds of his skin as he watches the clock, the needle’s frantic advance.
Showers again and shakes out the aired shirt. Wraps the bandage around his torso three times, tighter this time, then gets dressed in a hurry.
Midnight. He arrives in another taxi, this one smelling of salt and desert. Holds his breath for half the ride, eyes closed, hands clenched around the suitcase every time they hit a bump, trying not to let it shift. He wonders when the road got so full of potholes. Luckily, his last-minute handiwork doesn’t seem to be causing trouble.
He almost feels sorry for the driver as he gets out—so unaware of the situation it makes Llewelyn’s stomach turn.
He guesses the room, just like that. Asks at the front desk with a polite tone, a warm facade slowly cracking. The question’s been floating in his head since yesterday: where he is, what he looks like.
The clerk picks up on the vague description and gives him the number without much resistance—quietly, maybe with a bill slipped in his pocket. Moss figures the instruction was left ahead of time, and he’s oddly comforted to see a living face behind the counter instead of a corpse.
The suitcase feels heavier now, though it might just be his perception—or the fatigue in his arms. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t care much, except for the fact that he could be shot before even knocking on the door.
He takes a deep breath as he stands in front of it. Room 121, the one farthest down. Lifts his hand and knocks three times—no more, no less—as if meeting a lover instead of walking into the possibility of death.
Swallows hard when the door opens. A pale face appears with a manufactured smile, dark eyes, and a haircut he thought he'd misseen the night of the shootout. A chill runs through him, head to toe, but he holds a stoic expression—staying within the limits of the act.
Neither of them says a word. The door opens wider, and the man steps aside to let him in.
He steps into the room, stiff as any statue. Looks around and makes out a dim light—a dull lamp on the nightstand, curtains closed, and a black bag at the foot of the bed. He waits, motionless, until the man behind him locks the door.
Moss can almost hear his breathing as he moves. Frustration, maybe. Or amusement. He’s guessing.
“Llewelyn Moss.”
He speaks first again. Mispronounces the name, with a strange accent encoded in a deep voice. Moss doesn’t turn around. He stays still until the man crosses the room with inscrutable calm, like everything’s already been decided.
Watches him walk to a single armchair tucked into a dim corner. He sits back with ease and leans into it, face composed in something unreadable. The shadows bend across every fold of his figure—darkness that seems to emanate from him.
Chigurh . That’s the name. However it’s pronounced. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t even want to think it.
Still standing, Moss’s hand tightens around the suitcase handle—nails digging into his palm. His body heat alone might be enough to trigger catastrophe.
“You know you’re only delaying the inevitable?”
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes are locked on him. He tries to think how to say what he needs to say—how to proceed. Keeps telling himself there’s no room for fear when he’s already past the point of no return.
He watches as Chigurh retrieves something from under the chair—some kind of shotgun with a suppressor—and places it across his lap with that same unsettling calm.
Moss almost wants to laugh. Not a trace of humor on his face.
Chigurh doesn’t even check him. Doesn’t seem concerned about an escape, or any backup plan, or a hidden weapon. No need. In his eyes, Moss would have to be stupid.
Good thing he doesn’t care about that category.
“I came to keep my word” he takes a step forward. “How do I know you’ll keep yours?”
“First, the money.”
Everything he says feels like a demand that makes Moss’s head ache. He swallows every stray thought and holds on only to what he has to do.
Watches him for a few seconds before making his next move. Their eye contact holds—piercing, dissecting every inch of him. He wonders if the man is reading him already, if he can smell the oil seeping between the stacks of money.
At my feet , Moss remembers. He wants to be sure he honors that. Walks toward him with slow steps, closing the distance. Feels like crossing some damned safety line—straight into a deep drop. A misstep far too deliberate.
He sets the suitcase down there—on the floor, between those leather boots, between his legs. Takes a moment, distracted, before letting go of the handle. Like releasing an enormous weight, a burden that’s lost its origin. It’s almost a relief—one that instantly turns to tension in his nerves as he straightens up and steps back.
Chigurh looks pleased, in some strange way. His calm starts to erode the one Moss had been building all the way to the motel.
He stands in front of him, then takes a few steps back. Just enough.
“It’s what’s left. I didn’t count it.”
“What 's left?”
Moss nods.
“Rooms, weapons, transport, bribes…”
“You stole it.”
“I found it.”
“It’s not yours.”
“As far as I know, it’s not yours either.”
“No. It belongs to someone. My job is to return it.”
He tries not to contradict him, but can’t help it. Bites the inside of his cheek.
“Why did you kill Wells? His job was the same.”
Chigurh sighs and breaks eye contact, like answering is a torment. Explaining things.
Boredom, Moss thinks. Negotiating won’t be easy.
“You’re not here to ask questions.”
He nods again. No, he’s not here to ask—but the enigma is right in front of him.
“Do you ever give anything to the people you’re about to kill?”
The sarcasm in his question is obvious, and this time, the man smiles. Same as before—a kind of grin that has nothing to do with kindness. A chill crawls up Moss’s neck just seeing it, that apparent mockery.
“No one accepts their fate fast enough to ask for anything beyond staying alive.”
“You think I’m accepting my fate.”
“I think you’re just buying time.”
There it is—a gaze that cuts through more than just his presence. Llewelyn falters for a second, his legs tempted to give in to the tension, to collapse. But he holds his ground, standing in the room, right on the edge of that supposed mental line of safety, facing a stare that swings between pure fatigue and something ready to break further.
“It’s all I’ve got now,” he says. “At least give me that.”
Chigurh stares at him. The shadows across his face shift unevenly, like something in his essence has changed. Moss watches him lean forward, then sees the tip of his boot brush against the suitcase. A cold sweat breaks over him, but he holds his expression. The only thing that might betray him is the frantic pulse in his neck.
“I don’t grant,” Chigurh says. “I follow through on consequence.”
“Consequence?”
“You thought you could take something that wasn’t yours without paying the price.”
I’ve paid enough , Moss wants to say. But he keeps quiet.
He resists the urge to glance at the suitcase at his feet—he knows those eyes are tracking every precise movement. The weapon still rests steady in Chigurh’s hands, and Moss doesn’t know what to do with his own. His palms are sweating. They might slip.
He allows himself the small act of walking to the bed. Sits under that inquisitive gaze—not entirely suspicious, he hopes—and removes his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Then rests his cold palms on his knees and leans forward, at just the right angle to keep the muzzle aimed at his chest. He exhales.
He’s made it this far—farther than he expected. No point in stopping now.
“You know,” he says, “Wells told me you had certain principles.”
Chigurh shifts his aim with precision. His boots still planted at the base of the suitcase. There’s a subtle intrigue in his eyes. A patience that stretches just past its limit.
“He did,” he says—more like a reflection, a slow nod that carries a quiet sense of amusement.
“Principles that transcend everything else,” Moss continues. “I guess that was his warning.”
Chigurh nods again, nothing more. And Moss watches him carefully—how he processes each word, how he smiles like he knows exactly what to say next to throw him off balance. How the shadows on his face deepen, shifting with every microexpression.
There’s a knot in Moss’s throat, one that tightens with every passing moment. The shotgun could go off at any second. But there’s some comfort in seeing the finger still far from the trigger.
The suitcase is still there. Its fate depends entirely on how this unfolds. Moss knows this could all end for him, right here. He’s sitting too close.
He starts to believe that any way out lies in the hands of whatever this supposed fate is—now, when he no longer has any control. Maybe I should open the suitcase myself, he thinks.
Then, Chigurh speaks again.
“Curious that you think you understand my motives, Llewelyn Moss. You really want to waste what time you have left talking about that?”
Moss barely smiles—a twitch beneath his mustache. He doesn’t know if it’s mockery or resignation, but for the first time since they met, he dares to show his teeth.
“I don’t think I understand them,” he replies, still bent over his knees. He pauses, reflecting on his own words. “But I do wonder what else could possibly matter to a man like you.”
Silence. Chigurh doesn’t respond right away. He tilts his head back and exhales. For a moment, he looks like he’s considering pulling the trigger—sending the pellets straight into Moss’s face.
Moss swallows and suppresses every trace of nervousness, every movement. He’s taking a bigger risk than ever, and a strange rush of adrenaline pulses through his bloodstream, from his gut to somewhere much deeper.
He thinks about the times he clung to life as his only tangible hope. But he no longer has that—never really did. He’s survived out of luck, by chance, because his body has always carried this traitorous tendency to lean into danger.
Carla Jean’s always resented that in him, every impulsive move. And for a second, he wonders if that’s why he chose a woman like her—so steady, to anchor his self-destructive heart.
A breath pulls him out of his thoughts. The man is watching him, then speaks with a voice deep and measured. A warning.
“You talk like your words might change something. Like I’m someone you can persuade. But the outcome was already written—long before you ever said a word.”
Llewelyn tests his patience. He knows it, and still, he answers.
“Well, here we are. You decide if I get to stay alive—and for how long. You must have some kind of rule.”
He can see the man’s fingers tightening around the shotgun, the alarming width of that suppressor. So mechanical. So precise.
It’s clear this man leaves nothing behind—not a trace, probably not even a footprint. Not a drop of blood. Moss wonders what’s left in his wake. If the police have ever caught him. What method keeps him going, what logic, what quiet principle.
Why he’s here—lurking—with such terrifying calm. One that only cracks when he’s questioned, when he’s pushed.
Even if it’s just a hairline fracture, Moss believes he can break it open.
Chigurh rises from his seat, the shotgun never leaving his hand. He uses the tip of his boot to nudge the suitcase toward Moss, who can’t help but tense up as the man slowly approaches.
Llewelyn looks up, taking in the unbroken seriousness on his face, the shadows cast in sharp angles. Now that he’s closer, he looks even more terrifying. The image is still vivid in Moss’s mind—an empty street in the dead of night, a gaping wound beneath the man’s shirt. The sound of boots, the long weapon, the measured steps while he hid behind a pickup truck, shaking like any cornered prey.
It’s the same rush, that overwhelming emotion, that guarded terror. He doesn’t understand it, but it intensifies when the suitcase stops—now at his feet.
“It’s not about rules. It’s about balance. And you…”
A pause. The silencer’s tip nearly grazes his chest.
“You disturbed it.”
The weapon rises, its barrel touching his chest, stopping just beneath his throat. He holds his breath in that brief moment as Chigurh studies him—eyes on the faded scars on his face, on the stretch of his neck, rising just a little, just enough to get a good look.
Moss starts to think there’s more to this. Now that the suitcase is so close, a final, absurd possibility surfaces—one that burns slowly through his gut.
He says nothing. Stays quiet and thinks. There’s an order, a fate, something to be restored. This man doesn’t enjoy killing, he must do it, Moss supposes. Then wonders: what is it about him that violates those rules, those supposed ideals?
And then, as if reading his mind, Chigurh speaks again—his voice shaking the air, a declaration.
“Principles. Not rules.”
Moss breathes shallowly, chin tilted upward. Then he asks,
“What’s the difference?”
“Rules change according to convenience. Principles never do.”
Chigurh stares at him so intently, so deeply, Moss feels like he could fall apart under that gaze. He’s being studied—every feature inspected like a specimen, something to handle with tweezers. The threat of a shot still hangs in the air. At this distance, it would tear his face open, scatter his brains across the mattress. Leave him dead, emptied out, and the man would walk away with clean boots.
His heart races at the thought, a confused impulse churning through his system. He breathes again and, eyes locked on Chigurh, replies:
“Then tell me which of those principles you’re gonna use on me.”
He never thought he’d see the man’s teeth—until now. That same smile again, something perverse drawn across the ridges of his cheeks. Not knowing what he’s thinking terrifies Moss more than the silencer pressed to his throat. Not knowing how to proceed, what to do with the suitcase so close.
Then, suddenly, the weapon lowers, and Chigurh steps back. Casually. As if it’s still too soon to blow his head off. He moves a few paces away—not far enough for safety, just enough to let him breathe. He doesn’t look at the suitcase, but he leaves it there, right at his feet. Moss knows it’s no accident.
“You already know this, but I’ll say it anyway,” Chigurh says. His tone brushes the edge of something deeply unsettling. Moss listens.
“When balance is broken, something must be paid. A restoration.”
Chigurh stops a few steps away, looks at the suitcase, then back at him.
“The principle, Moss, is simple: when a man forces his will on something he doesn’t understand, imbalance is inevitable.”
There’s a pause. He looks at him, and that look doesn’t feel human. Moss thinks of something mechanical—detailed and exacting, like he’s assessing the wreckage of something already broken.
He doesn’t turn his back, but moves away to drag a chair from the corner. Sits down silently, distantly, the shotgun resting on his thigh. This time he doesn’t aim. He doesn’t need to.
The suitcase sits there, an obvious sentence. Chigurh looks at it again.
“Open it.”
The order is so cold and absolute it sets every nerve in Moss on high alert. He starts to sweat, pulse quickening as his eyes lock on the case. He imagines the smell of fuel, rusted fertilizer, scorched paper. Thinks through the outcome. They’re in a closed room. Maybe there’s someone next door. Maybe he’ll lose a goddamn limb.
He wonders when this idea even occurred to him—and at the same time, considers getting down on his knees and loosening the straps.
“Why?”
He dares to ask.
Chigurh simply repeats,
“Please. Open it.”
The request sounds so deliberate, so imposed, that Moss reaches with a clumsy hand to pull the suitcase closer to his feet. He stays seated there, on the edge of the bed, while the man remains far enough away to make the deduction clear. He glances sideways at the shut windows, the curtain drawn across.
Escape is out of the question. So he keeps his hands on both buckles, his anguish visible, questions multiplying by the second.
"Are you afraid?" Chigurh asks.
Moss shakes his head, but he doesn’t even convince himself.
The man smiles. "Show me."
His hands on the straps feel hot, sweaty. A damned bead of sweat rolls from his forehead onto the unmarked leather. For a brief moment, he reconsiders every decision that brought him here, under eyes that dissect him in a run-down motel room.
He takes a deep breath. The air is dense, as if the room had been sealed from the start, waiting only for this.
He looks at Chigurh, at that confident face. There’s no way he could know what’s inside the case—and yet he does.
He slides his thumbs beneath the buckles, gives a gentle pull, and the first clasp pops open with a dry click. A chilling emptiness blooms in his gut—tension, danger. For some reason, his mouth waters as he loosens the final strap. That unblinking stare scorches his skin. That strange certainty. Chigurh isn’t immune. He knows that now. Moss leans toward the thought—if fate wants the man dead, he will die.
He opens the case because the consequence belongs to him. Chigurh carries that premise in his sealed lips. Moss pulls the last clasp and lifts the lid.
Nothing happens. Silence.
The stacks of bills remain untouched. Nothing goes off but the oily scent bleeding into the tight space. He stays frozen, unable to move. Fingers fixed on the leather, feeling phantom fire, burnt skin. There’s none of it, but his face flushes red and burns when he looks up and finds Chigurh staring at him.
His body remains still and upright, but there’s something different in his expression. It isn’t mockery, or certainty. Moss can’t tell what it is, only that it’s different. He swallows hard, breathing raggedly—something he hadn’t noticed until now.
And for the first time that night, he feels something that cuts deeper than fear.
Shame.
He stays quiet. An involuntary confession that needs no voice.
Chigurh rises from his chair, but Moss can’t look away from the suitcase at his feet—the bills, the wasted chances.
He hears something metallic. A faint clink. Something being picked up.
When he finally looks up, the man is standing in front of him again. The shotgun is gone. He’s holding something else. Not a weapon. A tool. A smooth steel tube connected to a hose. Moss has seen it before—a captive bolt pistol.
He swallows. Hard. Is this it? Just like that? Like some goddamn animal?
There’s no need to aim. Just get close enough. Press the barrel to his forehead and make sure the seal holds. The rest is technique. And compressed air.
Moss stifles a trembling breath when he feels the tip of the weapon under his chin. It’s familiar now, he suspects. He says nothing as he feels his face tilt upward, lifted to the height of the man’s chest. His cheeks burn with the shame of his own obedience.
"You thought you could choose how it ends," Chigurh says—not mocking, just stating it.
Moss doesn’t respond. He has no words. His eyes flick toward the suitcase, now a little farther from them both.
"Is that what made you think you were different?"
"No." Moss answers quickly, jaw clenched. He swallows and looks at him, the contact unbroken. He can’t help but correct himself under the weight of that voice. "Yes."
A pause. Chigurh nods. "But it didn’t work."
Silence. Then Chigurh tilts his head back slightly, like he’s studying the situation, or his own words. The metal brushes Moss’s cheek, the corner of his lips. A hot jolt surges through his body—a bad idea. His eyes drop, catching the gleam of a belt buckle, pants drawn tight at the waist.
"Nothing works." This time, he whispers, the cylinder steady in his hand. "It just happens."
Again, Moss says nothing. The metal rests against his forehead like some kind of ritual—a tube that could split his skull with a single blow. He thinks of the forgotten shotgun, the new shape of being at death’s edge. He wonders if this is a kind of sick compassion—a mechanical choice, faster, painless. He thinks it, and the thought sinks into his bones like his time has finally run out.
"Still," Chigurh orders. And he obeys, petrified as the seconds pass.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the man’s other hand move toward the steel tank, ready to release the pressure and drive a perfect hole through his skull. He imagines the pain that won’t come, the speed at which all that bloody matter will collapse inward.
And yet, he can’t obey—not fully, not without trying one last foolish option. He focuses on the contrast: the cold of the metal, the rising heat. One at each end of his unraveling body.
Before the shot, Llewelyn raises his hands to the thick buckle. He places his fingers over the leather belt. A reckless move—he doesn’t care. He doesn’t have much left to lose. He stays there, unsteady. Then looks up, just to see whether he’s made things worse.
The metal pulls away from his forehead. Eyes meet his—not with the usual indifference, but something slightly off from it. The grip doesn’t waver, doesn’t flinch. But it stops, and that alone is more than Moss has managed all night.
The thought of opening his mouth to offer anything beyond words eats at him. And yet, something humiliating and low stirs beneath the fabric of his jeans when the man doesn’t move. When he just watches him—waiting for the smallest offer, the most common one. Moss prepares to speak without moving his hands.
“You can take this.” He pauses, swallows. “Restore the balance.”
A jolt runs through his body as the tank hits the floor and a firm hand grabs his chin, fingers digging into his cheekbones. He’s held there—hard—and Moss can’t help but gasp at the sudden pressure against his skin.
“You’re persistent.”
The voice is rough. And Moss wonders if there’s something in his erratic behavior that keeps tearing holes in the man’s precious principles. Maybe there is. Everything has led to this moment—not by fate, but by some irreducible chance that commands his body. His constant drive to be swallowed by risk.
The man tightens his grip and goes on:
“But you already gave all you had.”
Moss slides his hands down with a softness he doesn’t recognize. One steadies the buckle, the other tugs lightly at the belt, ready to give. It’s a response. A refusal. His body shudders when he hears the man’s breathing above him, heavy and close, masked by an unmoved expression.
“I’m still breathing,” he says.
“And you think that counts for something?”
Moss looks up from below, offering what he has from beneath wet lashes. He smiles—no teeth, no humor, no plea. Just a quiet pride that refuses to drop.
“I’d be dead already if it didn’t.”
Chigurh lets go of his face with the same roughness, and a stinging pain cuts across his skin, half-moon welts rising along his jaw. He steps back, and Moss’s hands are forced away. The tank rests on the floor. The captive bolt gun under the bed.
Moss stays still, trying to see if something has cracked in the man’s expression. Nothing.
With flushed cheeks, he watches as Chigurh reaches into his pocket and pulls out a coin. Lifts it like a kind of charm. Then places it on his thumb. Ready to flip.
“Call it.”
“What?”
He sighs. The coin waits.
“It’s all I can offer. Call it.”
He swallows hard, throat dry at the mere thought of two possible outcomes. Luck hasn’t exactly been on his side, no matter how drawn his body is to chance. He keeps asking himself if those are really the only two options. If Chigurh will reach for the tank again, or if his hands will once more cross into what should remain untouchable.
He breathes. Closes his eyes for a moment and thinks of his wife.
Not the time for that, he scolds himself. Maybe it would be—though only in one of the outcomes. It wouldn’t be such a bad last thought.
“Heads,” he says, eyes fixed on the tank.
Chigurh flips the coin. It spins twice in the air before he catches it with practiced ease. He slaps it onto the back of his other hand, then looks at Moss—still, silent. Slowly, he lifts his hand and gazes at the result.
Moss doesn’t see it. The answer hangs in the air. A second passes, and Chigurh quietly slips the coin back into his pocket.
His heart pounds inside the compressed space of his chest. The suspense tightens down to seconds, burning through his body. He lowers his gaze to the floor, says nothing. There’s not much else he can do. Until a warm, calloused hand lands on the back of his neck. Fingers weave into his damp hair.
Moss doesn’t have time to process before he’s pushed to the floor. He falls to his knees, bracing himself near Chigurh’s boots, hands fumbling against the stained carpet. His whole body is burning, churning with something he can’t name as he catches a glimpse—over his shoulder—of Chigurh now seated on the edge of the bed.
His hands rest on his thighs, legs spread apart. That same stoic, faintly expectant expression.
He doesn’t need to tell him what to do anymore.
Llewelyn positions himself in front of him, hands pausing on his knees as he watches Chigurh move his own hands to the sides, making space for him. He stills, caught in the heat of his breathing—heavy, hot. His own belly throbs like a stone full of splinters.
He doesn’t have to look at him. But he feels like he should. And there’s no wave of the expected terror when his hands finally undo the belt.
He does it precisely. This is his coin toss.
He undoes the first button and pulls his pants down—just enough to reveal a damp shadow on his underwear.
He’s no expert—nor is he new to this. The first motion is clumsy, despite the conviction behind it. He’s still too dazed, starving in the worst way imaginable. What he touches is half-hard and radiating a heat that makes his mouth water. He slides his hands up to the man’s hips, leans in, and opens his mouth, letting his tongue soak the fabric. He can almost feel Chigurh tense under his grip.
His tongue feels heavy—he knows it. It glides over the cloth like he’s preparing himself. He pulls the waistband down without using his hands, and the hardened length hits his cheek like an instinctual act—like something preordained. He steadies himself against the man, and before he can go any further, Chigurh’s hand tightens at his nape, forcing him to look up.
“You offered.”
It’s not a question. It’s a gravelly breath, a reminder spoken aloud. One he’ll have to repeat. Or one Moss will have to repeat to himself, as he nods slightly, eyes heavy-lidded, saying nothing so his lips can part and take him in.
Chigurh doesn’t guide him, but his grip stays. Fingers in his hair, tugging and stroking with a roughness Moss has never known—but doesn’t resist. He allows it, lets it happen as his lips slide lower. He feels the raw wetness curve along his tongue, and if he focuses too much on it, on the sensation pressing tight beneath his own jeans, he won’t be able to keep going.
He can see himself even with his eyes closed. On his knees. Submissive in a way that once felt foreign to him. He takes him deeper, until it burns. He shows what he believes is still his own agency. He wants Chigurh to see it—the power etched into his body, the possibility of unmaking him, of unraveling principles without a single word.
A choked gasp slips from his lips when the tip brushes the back of his throat. He needs to pull back, to breathe, to avoid gagging. But a rough, unexpected moan breaks through his thoughts. He can’t help but look up, watch what he’s causing. Half-lidded eyes, a furrowed brow, a desperate effort not to give in to instinct. Llewelyn might laugh, if it weren’t for his full mouth and the sharp friction burning between his legs.
The hand on his nape slides to his cheek, wiping away the mess of spit collecting at the corners of his mouth. It’s not gentle, but it’s not harsh either. It’s practical. Chigurh pushes his thumb between Moss’s lips and slowly draws him off his lap. Llewelyn narrows his eyes—he sees him, dripping, still hard, not finished. That thumb lingers against his tongue, his teeth, the warmth of his cheek. A shaky moan escapes him. He’s a bundle of raw nerves on the floor without even touching himself. He could die from the thought alone.
A firm hand grips his arm. Chigurh pulls him up wordlessly to sit on the bed. Llewelyn obeys and slumps onto the blanket like something stunned, thoughtless, drifting. He breathes, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The taste—salty and sweaty—lingers on his tongue, but the sensation fades when the man’s nearness becomes real, pressing.
He pushes him onto his back and tears the shirt open in one efficient motion. The gasp comes unbidden—caught between the surprise and the chill licking at his exposed chest as the undershirt is pulled up. A few buttons scatter, lost in the motion, and Chigurh, leaning over him, rests a hand against the bloodied bandage around his ribs.
Llewelyn glances down. He hadn’t noticed the streak of blood, the dull ache of the not-yet-healed wound. He lets his head fall back and focuses—not on the pain, but the deep tremor locking up his insides. He barely breathes as Chigurh pulls a folding knife from his back pocket—small, functional, sharp enough to light every nerve. The other hand opens his jeans, frees him, and grips with a force that draws a strangled sound from his throat, lifting his hips before he even means to move.
Chigurh looks down at him, pupils dilated as his gaze traces every inch of his body, every strange scar—scratches, cuts, lacerations. Solid fragments that once pierced the skin and sealed themselves into thick keloids hidden beneath a layer of hair. Moss breathes heavily as the cold blade glides along the surface of his skin, slipping beneath the bandages to slice them away and drop them to the floor. It's a simple act of inspection, yet it undoes him completely. Chigurh's thumb presses down on the oozing circle and Moss groans—a pain that electrifies into something hollow and deeply pleasurable.
The blood that rises is faint, pale, staining the man's fingertips. To Moss's relief, the knife clicks shut and is pocketed. But Chigurh doesn't stop. He hooks a hand into the waistband of Moss’s pants and drags them down. Moss starts to lift himself, to help undress, but a firm hand shoves him back onto the mattress. He exhales sharply and lets it happen. The boots come off, then the socks, and the damage to his feet is revealed—raw, crusted over, inflamed. Just like the mess of pellets still visible in his bare shoulder. His cheeks burn, and his cock gives a twitch, flushed and rigid, every time fingers skim the open wounds.
It’s that same searing shame—the feeling of being exposed and alive under the gaze of a systematic killer. Chigurh doesn’t undress; nothing is bared except the sweat on his brow and the undone front of his trousers. Llewelyn shifts under the contact, and the idea forms that maybe he could touch something beyond what’s symbolically permitted. He wonders, for a flash, about the wounds the other man might be hiding, about the dark skin under his shirt. He thinks of him with a hunger that defies terms, that goes beyond consequence. Suddenly, he feels filthy—a corrupted form of chance that clouds whatever logic he had left.
Chigurh climbs onto the bed, kneeling over him. A hand slides down Moss’s bare thigh, and every hair stands on end at the touch. He resists the urge to touch himself, to relieve the pressure and constant ache. But soon he gives in, letting his hand drift between his legs. He bites his lip to stop any sound as he grips himself, beginning the inevitable rhythm.
The degradation sharpens when the man’s eyes fall on him, unflinching, full of control. He grabs Moss’s wrist and twists it. Something soft and strained cracks under the skin. A choked cry escapes, and he almost feels like he could come from the sensation alone—but it only burns, it sears, and it keeps him exactly where he is.
“Don’t move,” he orders, his deep voice a reminder of what’s unfolding.
Moss turns his face toward the sheets, profile exposed and aching. He doesn’t reply, but Chigurh knows he’s following what’s been set.
One of his legs is lifted—Chigurh raises it toward himself and brings his mouth to the inside of his thigh. Moss barely manages to suppress any sound, but another guttural moan escapes when teeth sink into his flesh, deep—until the skin caves in under neat rows of blood.
It hurts—worse than the forgotten gunshot, worse than torn skin. It burns, it throbs, and it doesn’t stop, even when the man’s warm tongue glides over the wounded surface. He dissects him, tastes his blood, hunts him.
He feels like he could dissolve right there, forget his own damn existence. His hips lift instinctively, searching for contact. Chigurh lets go of his leg and moves downward with calm. He doesn’t give in, but something loosens. Thick hands rest at Moss’s sides, their chests don’t quite touch, but their groins do. It’s an unintentional brush that makes him tremble head to toe, lean into the wet friction, exhale softly in search of breath.
He grips the man’s jacket, slides his hands beneath the shirt with boldness, and touches skin. Chigurh doesn’t pull away, doesn’t hurt, doesn’t react—but he moves against him, rubbing, breathing heavily over his bare neck.
It doesn’t last long. He pulls back before tipping over. Controlled, precise in his movement, and Llewelyn can only wait for the next step.
His thigh still pulses, still bleeds thick and slow. He ignores the chance of a damn infection and breathes in shallow gasps when Chigurh slides fingers through the blood until they’re coated. He moves slowly, methodically—and yet remains impossible to predict.
The intrusion is immediate. Fingers slick with saliva and blood press between his thighs and slide into him. They’re stiff, wet, somehow both rough and yielding. He can’t help but tense, clench his jaw, dig one hand into Chigurh’s arm. The man looks straight at him for a second and brings his other hand to Moss’s throat. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t press, but leaves it there—threatening.
Llewelyn understands. He tries to let go. But the pain and friction come anyway, tension beyond his control. He breathes slow, deep, staggered. His eyes shut tight, doing all he can to yield, but the violation persists—until it draws tears beneath his lashes, involuntary, shameful, and somehow makes him harder.
Chigurh stops, and a breath of restrained relief slips from Llewelyn’s lips. He opens his eyes and sees him there—his figure above him, strangely patient, impassive. There’s no regret, much less mercy—only a recognition that his body is part of an order, something that must be executed properly.
He rises slowly, with a composure Moss can’t fully decipher. Shrugs off his jacket and lets it fall. Then unbuttons his shirt, one button at a time. Moss holds his breath as he takes in his body—something tangible at last. He’s big, the breadth of his arms more striking now that he leans over him. Chigurh keeps his eyes fixed on his face as he finally wraps a hand around himself. The contrast blurs Moss’s thoughts—the roughness of the grip, the measured rhythm. There’s something precise in the way he strokes, a hand that brings them both together, slick with precum. Moss moans low, his lip trembling under the other man’s gaze. So restrained. So unreadable. And yet, so attuned to every reaction.
There’s something in their joined breath that completely undoes him—something dangerous in the nearness of his mouth. A kiss would cross a line, but it follows as if preordained. Moss thinks about it, gasps through parted lips, reaching for something to hold. He grabs the back of his neck and leans in—impulsively. The kiss is clumsy, a collision of teeth. Chigurh seems about to pull away but ends up pressing deeper into his mouth. Moss feels the intrusive tongue, the taste of his own blood, the rough hand suddenly clenching his throat, and teeth sinking into the raw flesh of his lower lip.
There’s pain—split skin—and a whimper dragging him to the edge. Chigurh lets go of their cocks to slide two fingers into Moss’s mouth. They enter without warning, pressing beneath his tongue. They gather thick saliva, tinged with blood from his torn lip. Moss doesn’t know if it’s punishment, correction, or part of the ritual. But he stays still, barely breathing—stuffed, shaken, on the verge.
One leg shifts to push his apart. The fingers slip in more easily now, deeper, and Moss exhales as he feels himself penetrated—stimulated in the most injurious way. It still hurts, but the tension has eased. Chigurh doesn’t keep going for long—just until he’s opened enough, until a moan nearly obscene spills from his wounded lips.
A grip on his hip urges him to turn, to give in with his face to the sheets. He clutches the fabric in his fists and breathes out as the intrusion returns, now with an obvious replacement. The man is thick; his steady hands press into his hips as he pushes in. Precise, even in this act—controlled in a way that makes Llewelyn tremble. He presses in until he’s fully inside. Llewelyn isn’t surprised by his capacity, but he sinks his teeth into the back of his own hand as the friction burns at his edges.
The man stays there for a moment, leaning forward until his chest brushes the warmth of Llewelyn’s bare back. A shiver shoots through him when a deep growl presses into his skin, close to the nape of his neck—a restraint he wishes he could see break.
Still, he stays like that, still and face-down. It’s an agreement. Llewelyn has never given himself up like this, because he’s always needed more. To touch, to brush, to bite. To be fused into desperate motion, to cling to something living, breathing. It isn’t about the lack of control—it’s the looming sense of solitude, of coming apart like an instrument, like something to be dissected.
The man has the kind of presence that reduces him. Chigurh. He tries to think of his first name, the person before the unmovable figure. He tries to remember, but the words dissolve as soon as they form.
A shallow thrust pushes him forward against the blanket. The friction distracts him from the sting at the base of his spine. He’s close—maybe. He thinks about that, about his name, about the fingers sinking into his skin. It’s the idea of trespass, of unmaking, that takes him to the edge.
He stops biting into his hand with a gasp and turns his face—his flushed profile tilted toward the figure taking him.
“I don’t…” A moan, another thrust. He breathes raggedly. “I don’t remember your name.”
Chigurh stills. Says nothing. Only heavy breathing is heard from his side, a warm and sweaty grip pressing into his skin.
A whimper escapes when he feels the absence—the man pulling out of him. For a moment, he thinks it’s over. That he can go, barely, panting, erection untouched. He imagines hitchhiking to El Paso, breaking into tears halfway there, laughing bitterly, feeling as alive as he does dead.
That doesn’t happen. Not yet. The grip tightens—rougher, more violent. Fingernails dig into the flesh of his hips, and he’s turned over onto his back, trembling and disoriented. His heart pounds when he sees Chigurh’s face above him—unrestrained despite his restraint. He grabs Moss’s legs and thrusts into him again—deep, sudden.
Nothing matters more than the overwhelming moan torn from his split lips. Something in it clouds his senses completely—a precise point, a pressure that burns his insides and twists pain into something like pleasure.
Chigurh leans down over him, coarse growls slipping between clenched teeth.
“You don’t need it,” he says against his ear, then drives in again, over and over. Nothing else matters to him but chasing what’s fated—heat, inevitability, the end building toward release.
Llewelyn writhes, clutches at his arms with need—scratches and digs in. Chigurh doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react beyond the sweat on his chest and the furrow of his brow. Moss glances down and sees the repeated clash of their hips, the raw sound of it echoing between their bodies. He catches sight of a blood-stained bandage on Chigurh’s leg—a real wound, the one Moss gave him during the shootout.
He locks onto that, holds to his image—the held-in pain, the breath spilling from his mouth still red with blood.
And then it hits—a detonation that unravels his senses, something spilling from deep inside. He drenches himself in thick, viscous streaks, head thrown back with a whimpering cry. It’s fast, sudden, and hypersensitivity follows.
He hopes to disappear, to sink into the sheets for the rest of his goddamn life.
It doesn’t happen.
Chigurh remains, breathes, and tightens a hand around his exposed throat. Keeps the precise rhythm of his hips, still too close. Llewelyn holds his breath and takes it all, eyes shut tight, clinging to that hand as if holding on to death itself.
He feels him thrust a few more times—then it happens. The hand around his neck tightens, reddening, clamping down and cutting off his air. He catches only a glimpse of his face—tense, panting. The bead of sweat. The parted lips. A human being, like any other.
The spill inside him fills him, and a low, resonant groan from the man sends a tremor through what’s left of his body. Chigurh breathes, his chest rising and falling like the air had thickened into something heavier. He stays buried for a few seconds—long enough to recover—and then loosens the choking grip. When he lets go, Llewelyn coughs and clutches his neck. He gasps, tearing up, forgetting how to breathe.
Chigurh pulls out and stares at him in silence—his wrecked face, the bruise blooming on his throat, the wounds still weeping. A shame made flesh, curling into itself.
“Breathe,” he says—either an order or just a suggestion. Moss does, barely, rubbing his neck. A pain takes shape—for the first time that night—as what it truly is.
The sense of finality is unavoidable. Something has ended, been reduced to nothing. The room seems to close in around him like a tightening square. The lighting feels familiar, strange—like he’s been here for years, cut off from everything and everyone. The sheets breathe. Sweat lingers. Come seeps between the folds of his skin. His throat is dry, metallic-tasting. He’s forgotten the danger—the oil soaked into the suitcase lining, the explosive, or the simple idea of both their bodies, dead.
Of Chigurh dead. Of him alive. Far away. With two million.
None of that has happened—and yet everything feels absurdly fated. Coherent. A structure untouched.
The man rises from the bed like someone waking up in the morning. Wipes himself clean, simply. Looks toward the bathroom like he’s considering a quick shower. Fastens his pants with practiced ease and glances back at him—still breathless and naked. Moss doesn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he pulls himself upright with effort. Reaches for his pants on the floor and fishes out a crushed pack. A cigarette is burning in no time. He doesn’t smoke often. Lately, it feels necessary.
Chigurh watches him smoke and cough, then turns his gaze to the suitcase at close range. Moss’s lack of fear doesn’t surprise him. Seeing him alive, breathing under consequence, unsettles him.
He looks at the captive bolt pistol on the floor, now distant, displaced into nothing. Balance was restored without it. With a body. There’s nothing left to act upon.
Moss has understood. He understands. Because he smokes there—naked and calm, like someone who accepts what he’s been given. A calculated exchange. Chigurh sees it now, in the watery sheen of his eyes, in the faint tremor of his legs.
He puts things back in order, rearranges and controls. Everything returns to his black bag. Moss doesn’t move from the bed, but he looks at him from time to time, then at the closed window, at the door. Chigurh sees him rubbing his bruised skin—an animal licking its wounds. He checks the suitcase and silently examines the detail. Smells the fertilizer and the stripped wires. He knows the method, as feasible as it is reckless.
He could be dead right now. Fate didn’t want it that way.
He places the suitcase between his feet and kneels with care, distant from the exposed body on the bed. Opens it calmly, separates the stacks without touching the edges, and it doesn’t take long to find the irregular seam. He remains expressionless, uncomfortable only from the simple need to shower. Using the same knife, he slips the blade into the seam and disables it. A decent trick.
He breathes in the air—nicotine, the lingering smoke.
“If I were you, I’d be careful with that,” Moss says simply, halfway through a cigarette.
Chigurh looks at him seriously.
“Go to the bathroom. I won’t be here when you come out.”
Moss leans over, puts on his pants with some difficulty, and stubs out the cigarette on the wooden surface without caring for the charred hole it leaves behind. Then he looks back at him, steady, his gaze drifting across the man’s still-naked torso. He considers his words before speaking.
“Will you keep the deal?”
Chigurh thinks for a moment—thinks of the order. The money is in front of him despite the absurd attempt. Moss meets his eyes with resolve, waiting for an answer because he’s given what he had to give.
The wife is no longer part of the equation. Neither is he.
Chigurh imagines another possibility—the flip side he avoided. Imagines him pale on the bed, his face as ruptured as Wells’s. He exhales. It hasn’t happened. Moss’s body is too alive, too intact, too aligned with his actions. Still naked, still slick with sweat.
Chigurh nods silently, says nothing else. And it’s enough for Moss to gather his clothes and walk to the bathroom with a quiet limp.
An hour passes before he emerges—reassembled, like a shattered vessel put back together.
Chigurh is gone. Nothing remains but the sterile scent of cologne in the air. He spots a first-aid kit on the nightstand, and beside it, a coin.
Later, Llewelyn Moss takes a cab to El Paso. Bandaged. Alive. With a worn coin in his pocket.