Even Mai Mingle had an animal nature.
In a daze, she recalled the Black Heart Restaurant—how she'd snatched up a chair and swung it, a blurry, brown-wood shadow arcing through the air. She'd been driven by a muscular rage, carried on a torrent of violence, and had shattered the chair into flying splinters on someone's head.
In a daze, she realized she had already kicked open the glass door. Just as the old woman spread her hands, about to reveal its mouth, she pressed the gun's muzzle to its forehead and unleashed a ring of bright white fire.
The old woman's head snapped back again. Its hands flailed in the air as if trying to regain its balance.
Before it could regain its footing and lift its head, Mai Mingle swept its legs, knocking it to the ground.
Adrenaline melted away all thought, anxiety, and fear, washing away everything superfluous. All that remained was the purest, most animalistic of instincts: to fight for survival.
"Go now!" she roared.
