After nearly an hour of what could barely be called a conversation with the assassin leader, Rex finally stepped back, letting out a deep breath as he crouched by the small river in the garden.
He dipped his bloodied hands into the cool water, scrubbing them with a kind of calm precision that felt unnervingly out of place after what had just transpired. Behind him, the leader of the assassins still dangled limply in the air, suspended by the same white chains that had held him since the beginning.
If the assassin leader could still think, if he could still feel, he might have begged for mercy. But his broken body told another story. His face was no longer recognizable, a pulpy mess of swollen flesh and blood.
His limbs were twisted at grotesque angles, like some nightmarish pretzel. Even his infamous healing factor had given up hours ago, the sheer brutality of Rex's punishment having pushed his body beyond any hope of recovery.
