“Put the gun down.” He seethed, his gloved hands raised slightly to show you he wasn’t armed. That he was safe.

Your shaky hand still pressed the gun to your temple, the click of the gun sounded as you cocked the gun back, pressing it more into your temple.

You had snapped. The war, the killings, the hurt and PTSD, everything. It has all made you snap.

“I’m not telling you again. Put. It. Down.” His words were clipped and stern but slight worry creeped up in his tone.