Nakahara stared at the pieces of flesh in front of him that were once human. The blood on the walls in spots and strokes created an ugly beauty, like a canvas on which death itself painted. The air smelled of gunpowder and iron. The silence was deafening. He took a cigarette out of the pack and lit it, taking a deep breath of nicotine. He will never allow himself to harm ordinary people, and those hostile brats who tried to oppose Port Mafia made the biggest mistake of their lives