Elsewhere.
When Melissa emerged from the black clinic, her SWAT uniform was stained red with blood. She clenched her fists tightly and, after a long pause, finally sheathed the blindingly hot blade.
She had warned Ulan long ago about dealing with these black clinics. He had agreed on the surface, but secretly, he had entrusted them to modify his prosthetics.
The SWAT team had a special identity and were restricted to maintenance remedy at specific locations. Legitimate prosthetic hospitals wouldn't admit them; only those shady clinics would take on such surgeries—money was all that mattered to them, not the identity of their patients.
There was no one left standing in the clinic.
The pleasure of a long-absent killing spree was indescribable, but at the same time, the night made her feel lost.
