Two hundred and eighty three heartbeats in a minute. Two hundred and eighty three heartbeats too many.

Fact: a normal heart beats at the tempo of one-zero-zero. Goes up to one-five-oh. Faster, faster. The music in your head is speeding up and you're still dancing. Onetwothreeonehundred, no room to breathe in between. Fourfivesixtwohundred. Two hundred is a danger zone. Eightyoneeightytwoeightythree. You can't even hear the music now. Don't trip up.

One shot.

The gun has never felt so heavy in Lambo's hand.

Two hundred and eighty three heartbeats. Five hundred and sixty six.

Lambo substitutes the sheep in his head for cows and pretends he's far away from this situation. Pretends he's back at target practice where the cans clink mechanically, metallically, instead of the wet slick sound of red spray against off-coloured walls. Where the girls still hand him chocolate by the dozen even if his aim is untrue.

It's always untrue.

He rolls the candy around in his mouth and counts cows, heartbeats, as time ticks away.

"Too slow."

One shot to the soul.

"I was getting to it."

"One day that'll be you."

Reborn gestures to the limp body on the floor, the blood splattered on Lambo's clothes. It's going to be hell to wash out. Blood never truly leaves. Lambo knows this, eyes flickering to Reborn's spotless hands.

"One day that'll be you," he fights back, but his voice is flattering and his eyes are bright as he watches crimson life seep out and turn black. He's a horrible liar.

The candy in his mouth turns sour. Citric acid glares and too much spoiled milk, soiled milk. He's reminded of lemons, of iced lemonade on a hot summer's day cold enough to give him a brain freeze.

Three.

Two.

One.

That's a danger zone, too.