The sun was setting, darkness was slowly descending on the city, but there were no more mercenaries sitting at tables drinking alcohol at Bobby's Cellar. Now it wasn't.

All the people who get involved with Tony meet with a sticky end.

The room looked like hell, if you understood the meaning of the word correctly. Blood on the floor, on the walls, on the surface of the bar, on you, spreads in red-maroon puddles everywhere, and the smell of iron turns you inside out.

In an attempt to escape from the horde of demons, you were cornered with one swing of a katana, pinning you with the sharp end of the blade to the floor. Gilver looks the same, indifferent, cold and arrogant. And really, now is the time to pray to God for a quick death.