Harsh sunlight poured through the bulletproof glass windows. The room was decorated in lifeless monochrome. The air conditioning hummed so quietly you could hear the second hand of the wall clock.
Zen sat back in a leather executive chair. Below him laid the city he believed he had finally conquered. But deep down, he knew the throne he sat upon was shaking.
His left hand gripped the armrest tightly. Meanwhile, his right hand, the hand he used to seize everything he owned, was encased in a black leather glove. Concealing the severed tendons and the paralyzed flesh beneath.
His left leg, drilled by a bullet and currently braced with surgical steel, throbbed with a dull, heavy ache every time he shifted his weight.
Those wounds were the brand of his defeat. A constant reminder that he would never sleep in peace until he saw their corpses.
