AUTHOR
The world dissolved into a hyper-real, nightmarish ballet of violence. Time didn't just slow; it fractured into a thousand sharp-edged moments.
Before the screeching tires of their car had even fully settled, Tokito was moving. He didn't wait for the vehicle to become a coffin. He exploded from his seat, flinging the door open while the chassis was still rocking.
It was a single, fluid motion, a predator escaping a trap. His eyes, usually so lazy, were now flat and focused, absorbing data at a terrifying speed: Three hostiles, left side. Van door sliding open.
A man lunged forward, a pistol raised. He never got to aim. Tokito's arm was already extended, his body a stable platform.
The gunshot was a deafening crack inside the concrete canyon of the expressway. The bullet took the man perfectly in the throat.
A grotesque fountain of crimson arced into the air, sparkling for a moment in the sun before splattering against the van's dirty white side.
