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The next couple moments speed by. Someone has called the paramedics, and Ink is lain on a scratchy wool blanket. The teenager from the entrance tells Kitsumai to stay put for questioning, but the biggest concern is Ink's health.

With the equipment shed, the wound is exposed. A close range bullet hole, chest level, bleeding profusely. No one says anything, but with frequent side-glances at Kitsu, their opinions don't need to voiced to know who they think is involved, perhaps to blame.

Two paramedics rush by, attending to Ink in the textbook fashion. However, it doesn't seem to be helping, as the ground is soon painted in the child's blood. One of the paramedics shouts for everyone to leave, while the applies pressure to the wound in vain. Mister Acne takes Kitsu by the shoulders to try to lead her away.

And, his face pale and eyes glazed over, Ink sends her a devilish smile.

The manager shoots out his arms, as does the wimp of a teenager employed now with her care.

One paramedic stands, grimly wiping his brow with the back of his bloodied hand. The other closes Ink's eyes, then urges everyone to vacate, in respect for the.. deceased.

Not long after, following a herding of lazer tag players to the lobby, the paramedics wheel a body bag out of an elevator and past police officers already taping off the scene. Someone in the crowd lets out a terrible noise, another suppresses a sob. One boy complains of not knowing what the score of the game really would have been.

Mister Acne loses interest in Kitsumai in favour of a better view of the body bag, providing a very opportune moment. A hand grazes Kitsu's shoulder, pulling her without question to the back of the crowd.

It's Ink. He gestures for her to be silent, doing it only to amuse himself. He takes her by the wrist and pulls her, again without permission or question, out of the way. His dragging isn't far, in fact, only into a nearby theatre. The same one, as it happens, they ditched not half an hour earlier. He releases her just inside the doors.

This time, Ink doesn't follow. He's done with this chase, he decides with a slight smile, smudging his own blood between his fingers where once there was popcorn grease. The wound in his chest is very much gone, his own gun to blame for the stunt he pulled.

And without a second thought, much like most of his actions have been this night, he strolls right out the emergency exit, setting off the fire alarm on his way out.