The hall ignited into a cacophony of man-made thunder, the guards' fingers finally committing to the squeeze—triggers depressing in pathetic slow-motion crawls, hammers falling like drunk sloths, chambers rotating with lazy, audible clicks that echoed like bad punchlines.
Muzzles belched white-orange hellfire in strobing bursts, the air instantly thick with the acrid choke of cordite, scorched powder, and the underlying rot of fear-piss soaking their pants.
Brass casings arced golden and tinkling, pinging off marble like cheap wind chimes in a hurricane, bullets shrieking forth in supersonic fury, their trails ripping sonic booms that would deafen mortals.
But me? I was the punchline they never saw coming. Time bent to my will—syrupy, hilarious sludge where their elite training looked like toddlers finger-painting with crayons.
