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𝙼𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚜

Shot didn't say anything when Ammo called. Didn't make a sound when Gun sent her another picture of her damn engagement ring, all shiny like it meant something deeper than metal and promises people break anyway. Shot just stared at the screen until the light went out. There was no good response, no smiley face or fake-ass 'I'm so happy for you two' to send back. Her sisters were locking it in, playing house, and Shot was stuck in a maybe for two long.

She needed something hard in her system. Booze, smoke, pills, she didn't care, as long as it made the ache in her chest shut the fuck up for a few hours. A good party. A dark room. Something crawling through her bloodstream that didn't ask questions and didn't leave room for her to think. She didn't want to talk about feelings, or rings, or what came next. She wanted bass, sweat and her hands on someone who wouldn't ask her what this was. Who wouldn't look at her like they were waiting for her to be more than exactly what she was: halfway feral, a little mean, mostly heartless when it counted.

Maybe it was petty. Or maybe it was jealousy in a better dress, but she didn't care. At least not tonight. Tonight she wanted to forget that she was the middle one, the unspoken one, the one no one ever pinned a future on. She didn't need a vow, just a full glass, a locked door, and a reason to feel like she still knew how to burn.