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Summary
John fired the gun and shattered time.
Reality crystallised around the wake of the bullet, fragmenting inwards, as though it was puncturing layers upon layers of mirrors, the shards tearing outwards in new leaves. It slowed. Stopped in the air, an inch away from Santino’s forehead. Santino smiled, swallowing his food, dabbing his mouth. John stared, taking a step back. Winston’s hand was outstretched. Frozen, like everyone else was frozen, in the middle of turning, in the middle of eating, drinking. Breathing.