The thug held by John let out a short grunt of pain.
John could clearly feel the windpipe in his palm becoming soft, the sound of bones breaking as dense as scattered parts.
Squish—
Camper swung a punch horizontally.
The hostage in front of John instantly turned into "meat strips," most of the flesh splattered onto the ground nearby.
He lifted his leg, stepping on the opponent's chest, pulling back to create distance, and emptied the pistol's magazine in mid-air.
"Ah—"
Camper let out a roar, his face ferocious, the tattoos on his bald head writhing with the twisting muscles.
He tore apart his suit jacket, revealing a body like a wall.
"Running so fast, you son of a bitch, young people just don't know how to assess the situation."
Camper reached out to wipe the blood oozing from the bullet holes.
There were large areas of tattoos on his body, the pistol bullets left clear and complete pits but didn't penetrate the subdermal armor.
