Her breath wrenched from her. This was too much. There was no way she'd been prepared for any of this, and at this point all of the night's events were slammed together into one horrible mess. Nothing made sense anymore, and the idea of Vagabond's gun to her head made a poetic sort of sense.

Not that it made it any less terrifying.

Her eyes went wide, still shiny and red-rimmed, her heart in her throat. The haze was no longer comforting, she suddenly wanted nothing more in the world than to be sober. Somehow, the reality of having the muzzle of Cole's gun pressed against her head was enough to stop her tears, though.

"Are you going to kill me?" What a stupid question, full of fear and fascination. Behind it, a certain stoic acceptance. Rosie did not want to die, she didn't know what she wanted, but there was something. It hovered on the edge of her mind, she could almost feel it on her tongue. It tasted cold and metallic, but that could have been adrenaline.