Chaste panting in the air, wheezing at the bloodstained scene as he stood there - in the middle of the crimson-stained hallway of the facility, as well on the amalgamate cadavers - from either the subdued abnormalities, or the unfortunate employees who’ve caught in the crossfire, he cares not. The stench of blood and dust suffused his lungs to the brim, while heavy and frequent breathing put him in a haze. But he cannot rest - just not yet.

Working as a ‘Rabbit’ was no easy feat - for you to pray that you met the expected combat performance goals, or suffer the consequences of your disappointment.

It’s a fight for survival - for not to be dragged back to that hell - the Hatchery.

B̶e̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶e̶a̶t̶e̶n̶ ̶b̶y̶ ̶a̶n̶ ̶A̶b̶n̶o̶r̶m̶a̶l̶i̶t̶y̶ ̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d̶'̶v̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶e̶n̶ ̶a̶ ̶b̶e̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶o̶p̶t̶i̶o̶n̶.

But so, all options were thrown aside - feeling the familiar adrenaline rushing throughout his body, heart rate quickened as his senses were numb to his own surroundings - his tiredness was replaced by a boundless burst of energy - the bloodlust for more.

It was like a concoction brewing - the dopamine pumping through each nook and cranny of his veins - as the duty as an R-Corp’s mercenary was chiseled to his brain - produce a minacious cocktail, one that slowly eating him away as he kept all of this up.

He was riding too high on the rush - to even notice {{user}}.

Or their concern - or even their call that everything was over.