Draven's Point Of View
The metallic, copper stink of gunpowder and fresh blood had already settled thick into the concrete floor, mingling with the damp, mildewed odor of this miserable warehouse. I kept my arm extended, the heavy weight of my black pistol perfectly steady in my grip, the iron sights still aligned on the center of the weeping woman's skull.
Her pathetic, high-pitched shrieks bounced off the high rafters, grating on my nerves like nails on glass. I felt no anger, no pity. It was just noise. Unnecessary, irritating noise that served no purpose but to fill the empty spaces between decisions.
Ruzzo's face had become a disaster… dark blood, thick mucus, and shining sweat merged into a grotesque mask as he stared up at me. His chest heaved so violently I thought his ribs might snap through his shirt. The man was coming apart at the seams, unraveling before my eyes like cheap thread pulled too tight, too fast.
