Raven screams, long and hard and hoarse.

At first it feels like ageing, Dorian Gray finally catching up with his portrait, but then her skin starts to spread, pooling outwards, every part of her losing cohesion.

The contents of her chest spill out onto the ground. Guns. Ammo. A carton of cigarettes. She tries to hold onto her pips, but her hand is no more than a small wave in the puddle that is her body.