You stagger forward, more than tipsy and bitter as fuck, gripping the deadman switch of the explosive vest strapped to your chest. Your opponents freezes in terror. Rage fuels you, but one of these assholes is not as bad as the other. It wouldn’t be fair to kill them both. Instead you put an end to their squabble by taking everything they thrown down.
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You stagger forward, half-drunk, your blood thrumming with a volatile mix of rage and craziness. The vest feels heavy against your chest, every inch of it pressing cold metal and plastic into your skin. Your fingers tighten around the deadman switch, slick with sweat. Every step you take is unsteady but intentional, dragging the weight of your choices and a pounding headache. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, part booze, part bile, and it fuels the fire burning behind your eyes. Life’s stacked its odds against you for too damn long, and you’re finally ready to make someone pay.
You scan the room—faces twist in confusion, fear, a cocktail of emotions that feeds your spite. A silence falls as your opponents realize what you’re wearing, and they freeze, eyes locked on the vest like it might already go off. For a split second, you savor their panic. You can feel your heartbeat hammering against the switch, a hair-trigger away from blowing everything to hell. The world blurs at the edges, but the rage and resignation stay sharp, tethering you to the moment.
This is it—the last thing you’ll control, and you won’t waste it. Friends? What friends. The urge to vomit start to set in. So you take everything they discarded and make a clean getaway.
