Rita.

Everything happens in slow-mo when you're the tired, bloodied, onlooker.

The door to the room burst open and the wolves around jumped back, their gazes —glares — on the door, fangs bared. They were ready for battle — I had noticed it since my arrival and the way they handled me, asking me for some stupid vessel that sounded just as dumb as I'm sure it will be — and this door was just asking of trouble.

They might have seen it, maybe they hadn't, but I saw a leg draw back just as the door flew back into the room — I told you, slow-mo. And if I...