Editing Hackforsatan19 (section)

===Take the opportunity.===
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=D046B5794D36511E4BF67E67D0F997C66EAC733CCF8827EC40A0DA04915CC16D Link]
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He's screaming. "BITCH! YOU BITCH!" He's scratching at his eyes. He's writhing on the floor. Your first impulse is to grab the tissue box and frantically rip out enough to make a towel. To clean up the blood... It can't be blood. It's too much. It's not your blood. He's bleeding. Blood that's definitely not your puke (which is definitely not blood). It's dripping out of his ears and mouth. No, it's gushing. He's having a seizure. Your hand reaches out for the tissue box but comes back with your purse.
People are gathering around the cubical, screaming. CALL 9-11! GET MITCH! WHAT HAPPENED?! OH MY GOD! The chaos and cacophony blurs and fades into a low drone beneath your own inner monologue. But it's not you. But it is. Inner dialogue? Something deep inside your head, whispering. Not a voice. An instinct? Urge? Push.
You raise your foot high in the air, higher than you even knew you could--YouTubeYogi1979's video lessons might actually be paying off--and you bring it down hard on Chuck's shriveled little goblin balls. You hear a crunch. A gasp from somewhere in the droning sea of murmurs. You can't tell if he even felt it. He's still seizing.
Still bleeding. 
Mitch is running toward the cubicle as fast as his stubby little legs can carry him. Cheryl, that bitch, clearly seeing her chance to be a fuckin' hero, tries to shove past you to get to Chuck. You shove her back, hard, and look at you! Standing up for yourself for once! She topples backward, knocking over the cubicle wall. 
Mitch is clawing at you, your one good blouse. He's shouting but you can't hear him. Or maybe you just don't care to hear him. He's trying to restrain you. At least you think that's what he's going for. He's just so pathetically fucking weak, it's kinda hard to tell. 
Your right hand is on his throat now. You didn't put it there. But you did. But it wasn't a choice. An impulse. An instinct. A primal command. It's just... where it belongs. So you squeeze.
His eyes are wide, bulging. He's gasping. He's clawing at you to free himself. You can barely feel it. 
"Stop!" shouts a voice behind you, weak.
You turn your head and see Winston from Inventory, 84 years old but too underpaid to retire, holding a tiny revolver in his quivering, liver-spotted hands. "Please..." he says. It's barely a whimper. "I don't want to... Please just... let him go..." It's sad, apologetic, kind. He's always been kind. You smile in red. 
A) Let go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=6B1B417DD661AA614BE1ACBD9A0F7014458F312525976836CACEB65A35256F17
B) Let Mitch go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=F0D878E8394E85143DA9D540986D863557BF0011DBD437BBC38C0A023051C659
(same as Respond above)
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