The metallic click of the safety lever turning off sounded like a thunderclap in the ruined bathroom. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. My hands which had spent the last twenty-eight years gently holding designer handbags and arranging dinner plates, were suddenly rock-solid as my fingers wrapped around the heavy, cold steel grip of Ethan's discarded semi-automatic handgun.
I raised my arms, aiming the barrel directly at the ceiling between the two bleeding giants and squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
The deafening roar of the gunshot blasted through the enclosed space, pulverizing a section of the luxury marble ceiling and raining dust and white plaster down into the thick, misty steam.
The brutal, bone-crushing violence in the shower stall stopped instantly. Fists froze mid-air. The feral, a
