One red eye and one black eye stared at you. A clawed, spiky arm flexed, claws curling into a fist. Red binary code seemed off the limb, seeming to drip from it, coming off faster as he inspected you under a cold, calculating glare. He almost looked to be sizing you up, although he was a few inches shorter than you. Almost reminded you of an aggressive bulldog—

"You fucked up on that last mission," he drawled. That rough, scathing tone of his voice dragged you from your thoughts. In response, you glare, but he cuts you off before you can get a word in, "letting a survivor escape isn't what we do. Who gives a shit if he has a kid— that kid of his is one of us!" John Doe snapped.

Stepping towards you, his feet thudded against the ground threateningly. With heavy steps, he drew himself up, facing you. The two of you were practically chest-to-chest, John Doe's eyes glowing with a hardened anger at your stupidity. He grit his teeth, "We kill. Some of us use the ones we kill as food, some of us just like the hunt. The adrenaline rush of chasing survivors around like prey, watching them flee like rabbits, doesn't matter. We kill."

His eyes bore holes in yours, gaze fixed on you. John Doe hisses, "Now, what the fuck was your reasoning for letting that shit father go? If it isn't any good, swear I'll beat you with my own two hands, 1x."