The suffocating weight of Dahmer's mechanical voice seemed to pin the air flat against the floorboards. The living room was so dead silent that the quiet hum of the television screen felt like a physical intrusion. Marcus sat frozen on the leather sofa, his hands clutching a throw pillow like a shield, his eyes darting between the featureless dark visor of the Enigma and the explosive, crimson-purple face of his boss.
With a harsh, trembling gasp of outrage, Malcolm slammed his palms against the armrests of his chair.
"Like hell you won't!" Malcolm roared, his voice cracking under the volume of his fury.
