His voice was so faint that almost only he himself could hear it.
With the mask on, his face was unreadable, eyes and eyebrows condensed with a gloomy sharpness.
He bent over and whispered into Yacob Harry's ear, as though speaking to a sick father on the bed.
Yet, his right hand precisely pressed on Yacob Harry's surgical wound, applying force little by little.
"Yacob Harry, if you're short on money, borrow from me, I'm always here to help. If you need medical treatment, I can hire a top-notch doctor for you. I want you alive, to witness with your own eyes as I send you to hell. I also want you to experience the transition from the living world to hell... It must be... thrilling."
Below his bangs, Jesse Rowan's face bore no visible trace.
He released his hand.
A large patch of fresh blood seeped out from Yacob Harry's wound, staining his hospital gown red.
The blood was as brilliant as the sunset, a vivid scarlet.
The air quickly filled with the nauseating smell of blood.
