"You know, killing him doesn't mean anything, right?"
John stood beside him with his arms crossed, expression calm.
If Gino shot Bismarck, the three of them would have no chance of leaving the Source Formula.
"F*ck, of course I know."
In the end, Gino didn't draw his gun, nor did he move his gaze, but kept staring intently at the mechanical arms cutting into Bismarck's flesh.
John lost the desire to communicate as well.
The sound of twisting arms intersected, and the air was filled with the stench of chemicals mingled with blood.
He inexplicably recalled the dim underground clinic in the East District.
The environments, equipment, hygiene conditions, and grades of medicine were worlds apart.
Although John didn't understand, just the precision down to the pores of the incisions was more professional than Ryan Randall, that drunkard.
But truth be told,
the dim clinic felt safer.
The doctor changing John's dressing once shared an example.
