It is a truth universally acknowledged that Jack Thompson is an ass. He’s chauvinistic, self-centered, and ambitious to the point of sacrificing anything or anyone hindering his rise to power.
He’s wholly insufferable and unlikely to change anytime soon.
None of this, however, meant that you wanted him dead.
So when you came upon his body lying in a pool of what appeared to be a good deal of his own blood, you were met with a moment of complete panic.
“Jack? Jack?” You collapsed next to him, voice rising with each repetition of his name eliciting no response.
Your hands fluttered uselessly around him trying to determine what they should be doing. Finally your common sense kicked in, and you pressed your fingers to his neck.
His pulse was erratic and faint but still present.
“Help.” The word caught in your throat and caused you to choke. “Help!” you repeated, louder this time.
“Help! Someone help! He’s been shot!” A man appeared in the doorway, his look of curiosity quickly morphing to horror.
“Hey, this isn’t a picture show! Go get help! Go!” you ordered, grabbing a shirt out of the suitcase on the bed, upending the whole thing in the process, to press to Jack’s wound.
The passerby seemed to snap out of his trance and took off running down the hall, yelling something that was indiscernible over the heartbeat in your ears.
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