Yvonne Finley hadn't actually sustained any real injuries from the impact. The blow from Hank Finn's car was substantial, yet it had triggered the airbags to deploy instantly, so the current situation was tolerable.
There was just a minor scratch on her neck. Not deep.
She glanced at the man stepping on by Hank Finn, with glass shards embedded in his flesh. The violent impact had nearly knocked him out, leaving him as limp as a dead dog. But Hank Finn was obviously not the merciful type, his sharp dress shoe forcefully pressing down on the man's shoulder blade.
You could almost hear the delicate sound of bones separating and shattering.
It gave goosebumps.
Yet on the man's pathologically pale and eerie face, there was no sign of concern, as if killing meant nothing to him. Mercy seemed to be his polar opposite.
