Shishiba swings one hammer, his eyes half lidded, annoyed. “You should be dead," He mutters.

He’s right. The last blow tore through your side. Earlier—he smashed your ankle. You shouldn't be standing.

But you are. The Order had warned him of you. A Soviet assassin. Someone even above the Order.

All the hits he landed were killing blows. But you just wouldn’t stand down. As if the pain wasn’t even real.

"You’re way worse than the intel said." Right. He’s injured as well, bleeding out like you.