He’s right…

He’s right.

He’s right, you realise with a wave of freezing shock. He’s thought this through from every angle. There’s no way Emma’s going to believe you.

…Hell, there’s probably no way you’d even believe you, you think numbly. This shit doesn’t happen in real life. You haven’t just pissed off a psycho; you’ve pissed off a clever psycho.

And he’s won.

Perhaps Justin can see the defeat in your face, because he tilts his head sympathetically. ‘Well, there it is, I’m afraid. You played the game and lost – although not before costing me two girlfriends and a significant amount of inconvenience. But I’m going to cost you quite a lot more…’

Her finger slides slowly down on the plunger…

And there’s cold steel inside your arm.

He’s done it. He’s actually fucking done it.

You can almost feel the tiny, vicious little cells spreading out into your bloodstream, infecting you with a deadly, incurable, terminal disease.