The knife slipped out of fingers that suddenly felt numb.

It clattered to the floor, loud and harsh in the silence that seemed to have fallen over the room. It was an illusion–shouting and gunshots and the stampeding of feet pounded at the air, blocked only by a few walls and an open doorway.

What had once been pristine tile was now marred. Scuffs of dirt and dust, from shoes that didn't have the privileged of keeping clean. And where the knife impacted the floor, a few sparse drops of crimson found their way onto the floor.

Blood.

From the wheeled gurney just a few feet above the ground, and from the man lying in it, now dead, his eyes open, staring. He hadn't even had time to react. Hadn't had time to be afraid.

His last moments had been angry. His quiet, bitter words had etched themselves into the fabric of the room, and they would stay there until they were forced to leave.

His last moments had been angry, but not fearful. He hadn't even seen it coming. It was a quick and painless death.

Well.

Almost painless.

Because the knife had fallen from hands that were now shaking, and though the illusion of silence still hung over the room and its sole living occupant, if you listened very closely, and held your breath, you could hear the sound of a heart breaking.