You huddle over your dead boyfriend, cradling his limp body to your chest. The blood from the bullet wound in his abdomen has long since stopped oozing. All that's left is his pale skin and blue lips.

Through your tear blurred vision, you see a man approaching. Broken glass crunches underneath his boots. You can't see his face, his skull mask only exposing the satisfaction in his eyes.

"Sorry about your boyfriend," he says, squatting down in front of you. "All those muscles didn't help much."