Hel stood amidst a room, with his hands covered in crimson blood, striking a menacing stance while his power misted out from his body like steam escaping a pot of boiling water. He lingered a smirk on his face, standing, encompassed by an army of powerful foes. The men in black suits beset him.
He was not far away from Rendell, but a certain figure was betwixt him and the former, blocking him from getting ahold of his target. Conor was his name. Now, Hel had punched two holes in Conor—which explains why his hands were girded in blood—but somehow he hadn't died. Conor didn't look nearly as belligerent as the other men encircling Hel.
"It was stupid of you to come alone. Where'd your men go?" asked Conor, holding his bleeding stomach.
