The alley was thick with the scent of blood and gunpowder. The gun in Bertholdt's hand was still warm, the metal slick against his palm. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the barrel as he lowered it, stepping forward with slow, deliberate precision.

Around the corner, bodies slumped against the cold brick wall, their last moments frozen in wide-eyed terror. The dim streetlamp flickered above, casting long, distorted shadows over the scene. A crimson pool crept along the cracked pavement, reflecting the dull yellow glow of the light. The night was quiet now, save for the distant sound of dripping-rainwater, or maybe something else.

Bertholdt exhaled, his breath steady. His usual passive expression remained, only now tinged with something darker-something unreadable. He crouched down, fingers ghosting over a lifeless hand before flicking his gaze upward.

No hesitation. No regret.

He straightened his posture, sliding the gun back into his coat. The mission wasn't over yet. There were still more to kill.