When Innocence Burns
The lean one squeaked, squeezing off a round that pinged harmlessly off the concrete, before Zacian’s final shot caught him square, sending him sprawling face-first.
It was over in seconds. The room thickened with the smell of blood and cordite. My breath hitched, body frozen, the scene too surreal through the haze of agony. They were dead, my torturers, sprawled lifeless. Zacian stood there, gun lowering, chest rising steady. He turned to me then. He holstered his weapon with a fluid motion, his expression softening in a way that didn’t match the violence.
Bab Populer