This moment, Rolff felt as if he had returned to that unforgettable night:
His throat had been slit, and he lay gasping in a pool of blood and rubble.
Blood filled his mouth and throat, backflowing into his trachea, causing him to cough violently, unable to breathe smoothly or voluntarily.
He could only activate his superpower, inch by inch, threading air through the blood and down his trachea, into his lungs.
Like breaking through shackles of blood-red color.
Just like now.
"Stay calm, Mute."
In the warehouse, Golov firmly grasped Rolff's shoulders, snapping the latter back from his daze.
The Zombie looked around nervously, lowering his voice in fear that others might discover something was amiss:
"Listen, after completing the mission, you'll have plenty of chances to settle scores with that female boss! But for now, just stay calm..."
Settle scores?
What scores?
Was it for his legs, or his throat, or—his life?
Calm?
Why stay calm?
Here, who the hell is not calm?
