Micka’s world is ruled by terror. Her friends are dying. All she can do is aim, fire, reload. “The world before me is round. Not round as in sphere-round, but as in circular-round, a dotted cross stamped on its milky surface. Green is the only colour glimmering atop the greyscale. Green is where my bullets will go. Black and green is how blood looks when it spills. Even the scents of the forest are black and green. Black like the soil; green like the foliage. The white is the fog. The Fog. Me. Silently, I embrace and engulf you. You don’t hear the bullet that gets you, for it travels faster than sound. You don’t hear death leaping at you. But I can hear you dying. And I can see your body growing as grey and black as the soil that drinks your blood.”
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