Time ticked as the drops of blood fell to the ground.
Mack, with complete dark clothes and two dark red swords by his belt, was chained in the middle of a dark chamber.
His foots didn't touched the ground, and the contrast between the chains and the dark room made the silhouette of Mack appear as enigmatic as the moon in the sky, one side full of darkness and the other bright as the day.
His head was down as if tired or unconscious, and sweat rolled down from his neck to his hair mocking the owner about his own fate, as if to anounce that a head should roll today.
Drops of blood mixed with sweat on the floor forming a pool below Mack feet, while the pungent smell seemed to permeate every corner of the small chamber.
But Mack was healing.
Healing too fast.
Normally someone would be happy about healing, but not Mack. Because by the end of this what awaited for him was his death.
His doom.
There was nothing that could change this invariable end.
"Is that so?"
