When Tristan carefully entered the demolished massage parlor, he saw the full extent of the damage dealt by the attackers.
Not only the front windows were destroyed, the entire foyer was turned into swiss cheese.
Worse, a pair of bodies was lying on the ground: a young woman, likely the receptionist, and a middle-aged man who must've been a visitor. The amount of blood around them left no doubts about their state.
It was evening, but in this kind of massage parlor those must've been still busy hours.
In a flimsy cover of a potted plant, there was kneeling a big man who was only slightly less bloody than the corpses. He was holding a handgun with one hand and putting pressure into a wound in his forearm with another.
He was in his thirties, but looked older because of the premature gray hairs on his head and the amount of small scars on his face. The face which really was familiar to Tristan.
