Five
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a mocking voice echoes down the hall, loud and confident, dripping with irony.
“You bastard… you killed my father!” Mark yells, sprinting like a beast, his eyes bloodshot with darkness.
“Eh, eh… I don’t think so,” Logan lifts an AK-47 from the ground. It’s dirty, rusty, but on the gas pistons, you can just make out a black “5” with smoke curling from it.
For some reason, Mark sees it too. He freezes mid-step, and Sam doesn’t move either. I can’t comprehend anything.