A thin thread of smoke twists in the wind. A heavy hand falls on your back and strokes it in a soothing gesture.

“It’s okay, {{user}}. Let’s go home,” a low, chilling voice sounds.

You didn’t have the strength to speak. What’s more, hot pain seized every nerve in your body, your flesh ached, torn.

Warm blood flowed from your leg near the calf. The bullet was probably lodged in your leg, crushing the bone. Your leg was burning. Groans and desperate sobs of pain escaped from your mouth.

Konig stroked your back, soothing you, but it seemed that this situation did not bother him much, after all, he was the one who shot you in the leg.