On a village path in the English countryside.
On the grassy slope by the road, a pale-faced man was stumbling, his hand gripping his chest, continuously moving forward on the grass.
With every step he took, he would squeeze out yellow and black bullets out from between the fingers gripping his chest, these bullets rained onto the ground, tumbling in the grass, but there was no trace of blood whatsoever.
The wound between the man’s fingers was only a red slit, that slit was like a mouth, spitting out bullets every so often.
The hot sun shone down on him, but the man’s skin was obviously growing paler, a mark like a red moon could be clearly seen on his brow.
He turned around occasionally to look behind him, as though worried that someone was chasing him.
His lips were dry and cracked, like those of someone who had gone without water for a long time.
Psst-psst-psst!
