Time slows. Jack see’s the gunman’s finger squeeze the trigger. He is already moving towards the gun. His actions are swift, decisions smooth and precise. Jack leaps towards the man holding the gun.
But it’s too late. The gun fires.
The crowd erupts in screams, Jack’s face is splattered with blood and brain matter, his shoes soaked with the blood of the victim as he hits the floor. The man with the gun escapes into the crowd.
Jack frantically tries to claw his way toward the fleeing gunman, but he can’t. His fists clench with frustration and horror. Bouncers clear the area around the dead man in the center of the club. His date, Laura, frantically runs out of the bathroom looking for him, alerted to the danger by screaming women seeking refuge in stalls. Jack stands alone, light strobes reflect off his eyes. His jaw is clenched. The music fades out as he replays the situation over again in his head.
If I had just been faster. I should have stopped that.
He pounds his fist into the ground.
Fuck