The ambient temperature in the Tactical Suite plummeted into a biting chill. Terrifying yellow bioluminescence bled through the dead monitor screens. The massive displays cast a sickly, jaundiced light over the shattered room.
Vance made no move to trigger a hidden trap. The Game Master reached up with trembling, bloodstained fingers. He grabbed the knot of his immaculate grey silk tie. Ripping the expensive fabric violently, he pulled the collar open to expose his throat. The pristine corporate uniform served as a useless prop now. He discarded it. Leaning heavily against the glass desk, he smeared dark crimson across the flawless surface. He fought a brutal, losing war just to keep his lungs inflated against the rising psychic pressure.
Don's finger slid off his sidearm's trigger. The cynic recognized the posture of a dead man walking. He lowered the heavy pistol a fraction of an inch, staring at the bleeding executive.
