A bullet. Three parts metal. The tip.
 Metal is your soul.
 The casing.
 You preserve us …
 And the knob at the back. The spot the hammer would hit.
 In that moment, to Waxillium’s eyes, they split into three lines, three parts. He took them all in at once. And then, as the bar crushed him, he let go of two bits.
 And shoved on that knob at the back

The bullet exploded. The casing flipped backward into the air, Pushed by Forch’s Allomancy, while the bullet itself zipped forward, untouched, before drilling into Forch’s skull.