The video of my murder had been viral for days. I could understand the initial error, as it was an uncommonly realistic fake; I preferred not to think about how enthusiastically people viewed and shared it even after the news had been debunked. I had watched it myself often enough to make its key moments too familiar to pay attention to: the man in the dark shirt drawing his gun, the frozen security guard, the sudden spot of blood on a green dress.
So when I saw a man in a black shirt with a gun in his hand I felt no fear but incredulous deja vu. He wasn't as smooth as the real one had been in the synthetic video, but the security guard near us was even slower, his hand momentarily caught in the muscle memory of that other cop.
Nobody in the lobby, as the man took agonizingly awkward seconds to aim, looked surprised or tried to stop him.
I know how you feel, I thought without resentment. I wasn't running, because I hadn't. I knew the spell would only last a few seconds more, and that it would be enough to get me killed.
In a final moment of satisfaction, I realized without looking that I was wearing a green dress.