The shift and crackle of the aftermath burns through the air. His fingers cling to the handle of the gun despite the shake in his hand. The second shot is a misfire; the trigger is squeezed but the only sound is an anticlimactic click. The next erupts in an explosively heavy sound.
He rests off the trigger, pulling a piece forward and exposing the chamber. Small circles of red remain; interconnected at each vessel by a larger ring. He lets it drop to the ground in its smokey haze. He fumbles through his pocket for the packet, cracking it open.
Dozens of small red rings spill out onto the floor, and he leans down to begrudgingly collect every single piece. Caps are a bitch to maintain.
Word Count: 126