I tracked Michael’s weapon hand, his feet, the angle of his shoulders, the distance between his body and mine.
Fear wanted noise.
Training wanted numbers.
Weapon hand.
Distance.
Witnesses.
Open line.
Protocol.
Five minutes, maybe less, if the response chain held.
Michael shoved the chair hard.
The tile came up fast.
I hit shoulder-first, then cheek-first.
Pain burst across my face, bright and hot.
Copper filled my mouth.
The cuff twisted my wrist against the chair leg, and for one second I was back in training rooms where mats smelled like sweat and rubber, where instructors taught us that the body panics before the mind finishes naming the threat.
Fear screams.
Assessment counts.
Michael stood over me with his pistol aimed at my face.
“Who do you think you are?” he shouted.
My mother’s hands were pressed over her mouth.
Tyler had stopped smiling.
His phone was still recording, but his face had changed.
