~Strike~
Shhhhccck.
The scrape of the match being lit. It echoed in Shawn’s ears like it came from an endless tunnel. The solitary flame that haphazardly trembled and danced on the little splinter of wood was so simplistic— so innocent, almost— that it was hard to be afraid of it.
The man who held it, however, was more intimidating than the flame. “I can’t have you or this evidence leaving this room,” he’d growled angrily. He’d shoved a gun against Shawn’s throat, forcing him and Gus to sit on a pair of rickety metal chairs, set far enough apart that they couldn’t yet reach to untie each other’s wrists. Boxes of ammunition and a few handfuls of smuggled explosives sat drenched in puddles of gasoline.
Now the pseudo-psychic felt his heart thumping in a rhythm of fear. The tiny little match did no harm— but the explosion it could start would.