I stared at the ceiling, counting the holes in the acoustic tiles—143, and yes, I recounted because OCD is fun when you're bleeding out—and felt something click in my brain like a fat cockhead popping past a too-tight ring.
Pain was there, sure, five bullets still screaming in every direction, but my brain had switched modes.
Silver lining. Huge. Perfect. Exploitable. Delicious. Dripping with opportunity like the monster I was planning to shove down Dmitri's throat before I ended him.
The incident had made national news. Teen shot five times at birthday party. Critical condition.
Local channels were jerking off on the hour, parking garage shots in glorious fluorescent detail—blood puddles glistening like the horror set of a bad teen slasher, ambulances screaming, witnesses trembling, valets still twitching like caffeinated marionettes.
