The art of making enemies
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'This is your fault. If we die, I'm going to spend the rest of our afterlife reminding you that this was all your fault!' He huffed, chest heaving with humidity and fear. His body language said fight but his eyes read flight.
She smiled, gold fangs shining in the red alarm lights and sprinklers. Blood stained her skin and drenched her dark hair. 'If you die, that is.'
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Hit
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"Count backwards from ten." The words escaped my mouth, echoing off the walls until they hit the old man's ears. He flinched, I could smell the sweat pouring out his pores, along with the shit he just dumped in his slacks. "Ten," He finally spoke once feeling the cold metal in the back of his head. "Nine." He shuddered, whimpering for mercy as I buried deeper. "Eight." However, he did not spoke the words of mercy, the old man knew it was no way of getting out of this, no way of running. "Seven." I took the safety off, the loud click made him whimper even more, shake as if it were Antartica and also sweat as if he were in the middle of the Congo. I, on the other hand, felt nothing. How can you feel anything for someone you only met just five minutes ago? "Si-" The old man didn't finish, I was getting tired of his voice and the smell of shit in the air. His body fell flat, a pool of blood formed quickly- just what I wanted to see. No second kill shot, no time wasted to see if he were actually dead. Quick, fast, and neat.
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