Chapter 3: Livestream Murder. Who Did He Think He Was?

As of now, Bowen was very nearly imploding. He had just a single child, Little Bowen. Little Bowen was disheartening and didn't acquire any of his concern abilities. He would just objective difficulty, and Bowen needed to tidy up the entirety of his wreck.

Be that as it may, Little Bowen was truly adept at satisfying him. A significant number of the ladies he played with were completely brought over by Little Bowen.

Bowen's own primary care physician had proactively inspected him. His body had proactively been harmed, and it was outside the realm of possibilities for him to have more youngsters.

He would have rather not given increased on Little Bowen!

Bowen was all the while contemplating on it, however the voice rang out once more. It came from the opposite finish of the room.

"Presently, the game starts. You actually have 29 minutes left."

The Death Judge said just two straightforward sentences, however it made Bowen so restless that he was going to go off the deep end.

He would have rather not dieed!

He had at long last arrived at this point. He was affluent, he partook in a decent status, he had numerous ladies, and he had all that each man on the planet longed for!

He hadn't delighted in it without limit, and he wasn't so much as fifty years of age yet. How is it possible that he could kick the bucket here this way!

Bowen was covered somewhere down in thought. He hurried to the lift however saw that the lift had proactively shut. He slapped the lift insanely, however there was no reaction.

"Crap! Crap! Crap!"

Bowen reviled as he hurried to the steps. He could as of now feel the aggravation in his body progressively turning out to be more extraordinary.

"Tune in! I'm Philemon Bowen! I'm the supervisor of Bowen Petroleum. Somebody will kill me live. Pick up the pace and save me!"

The administrator who remained up all night tranquilly and gradually said, "Simply sit back and relax. Tell me gradually. Where could you be? Do you know the individual who needs to kill you? What telephone would you say you are calling from now?"

"Didn't you hear me? I'm Philemon Bowen! I'm at the Wall Street Financial Building. Come here rapidly! I don't pay such a lot of assessment consistently to take care of a lot of rubbish!" he thundered.

After five minutes, two squad cars set off from the closest police headquarters and hurried to the Wall Street monetary structure.

"Boss, we've tracked down the live transmission," a cop hollered as he gave the PC to the boss.

Benjamin Theodore, the head of the 77th Precinct of the New York Police Department, took the PC. In the recordings, he could see that Bowen had tumbled down. It was because of the impact of the toxic substance on his muscles. He had moved down the steps. At the point when he fell, his head was dying, and nobody could perceive how he was doing at that accurate second.

"A live transmission of homicide. Who does he suppose he is? He couldn't care less about us! Seal his live transmission room and record right away!" the boss said.

The cop replied, "No, boss. I've attempted it a little while ago. This live transmission room is certifiably not an ordinary live transmission room. Like an infection is connected to the Internet. It can't be closed down by any stretch of the imagination. The main way is to close down the site's server straightforwardly. All things being equal, it probably won't be valuable. On the off chance that it comes up short and isn't totally closed down, watchers will essentially leap to other live transmission rooms. That would cause a more noteworthy effect!"

At the point when that's what theodore heard, he faltered. He was unable to close it down, and he had no real option except to do as such! The more he procrastinated, the more noteworthy the effect!

Close it down!

With a solidified assurance, Theodore requested, "Promptly contact the FBI and advise them to close down every one of the servers of the relative multitude of sites that are communicating the substance of this streaming room!"

"Indeed, sir!"

In the mean time, Bowen had proactively hauled himself to the corridor on the principal floor. The screen in the corridor out of nowhere turned on. What was playing was the substance of the streaming room. He checked out at himself on the screen. The muscles all over had started to disintegrate and became mutilated. He had never seen such a monstrous face.

"Am I going to kick the bucket? Where could the police be? Come and save me! Who will save me?"

The restless Bowen yelled in the corridor, but since the muscles in his vocal strings had disintegrated, his voice sounded significantly more disagreeable than the shouts of the fallen angels in damnation.

There was no reaction. Just the reverberations of his own voice could be heard in the unfilled corridor.

Bowen watched through of the window and gazed at the aggregate of Wall Street, which was enlightened by the lights. He felt that his vision was getting more obscure and hazier. This spot addressed the abundance of the world. Be that as it may, no measure of abundance presently could keep him from sliding toward death.

Out of nowhere…

He appeared to have considered something. He quickly looked for something at the front counter in the corridor.

Before long, he observed the brilliant mallet that he used to ring the ringer at whatever point his organization opened up to the world!

He strolled to the French window and swung his arm.

He anticipated that the glass should break. Be that as it may, the brilliant sledge flew out of his hand and hit his head.

Time is cash!

Bowen, who was lying on the ground, had said this when he was youthful. Presently, he totally couldn't help contradicting this sentence.

On the off chance that he could be given even a couple of moments, he might want to surrender cash. Consistently was torment for him now. In addition to the fact that he encountering was actual torment from his dissolving muscles, however he was additionally being tormented mentally. Consistently, the aggravation would turn out to be more extraordinary. The extraordinary aggravation continued advising him that passing was getting increasingly close to him, however he had no chance to get out. He could persevere through the physical and mental torment.

"Huff! Huff!"

Bowen's breathing turned out to be increasingly toiled.

The disfigurement of his face brought about by the disintegration of his muscles was additionally turning out to be increasingly apparent. His face was at this point not unmistakable. It at this point not resembled a human's face.

"This person is kicking the bucket. Pick up the pace and kick the bucket! For what reason would you say you are as yet breathing so hard? It's a misuse of air!"

"He's not dead yet. It's simply frightening. On the off chance that he can in any case stand and swing the mallet, it implies that he's still a long way from death. The appointed authority said that he is given 30 minutes. He actually has 16 minutes left."

"The appointed authority clearly determined well. It's unmistakable now that this person will not have the option to get away. The street is still somewhat clogged. The police clearly will not have the option to make it."

"Did you see the disfigurement all over and the state of the bones on his shoulders and arms? That is on the grounds that the muscles have disintegrated. He is currently got dried out. Regardless of whether he kick the bucket soon, he will not have the option to move up the steps since he ran out of solidarity. In an additional ten minutes, he will not have the option to try and get a blade."