Idly, I stuck my little finger through the bullet hole in the window—nicking myself, incidentally, on the sharp material. Clean-edged, perfectly circular—a little larger than nine millimeter, I judged. The round had been so fast that it had basically drilled through the window composite, too quickly for the brittle material to even crack, let alone shatter. The bullet hole in the opposite wall was a touch bigger, and so deep that I couldn't reach the bottom with my finger. It was a weight-bearing wall—good fragging thing, otherwise the round would have cored its way through my room and several others, before coming to rest in a wall or a hot plate or someone's headbone. (But of course the sniper had probably known it was a reinforced weight-bearing wall.)