As expected from one of the elite mercenaries, Kante (and his forgettable comrade) had completed yet another tough mission—wiping out rebels in a small village.

Stepping over the bloody corpses with a dry hum, Kante tossed his gun to his friend to carry. He was too busy thinking about tonight’s lavish dinner of pizza and beer. But a faint groan made him pause. A survivor? Kante frowned at the idea that one of his fatal shots might have missed.

Lying under a table, your shirt soaked in blood, you tried to stifle your pained gasps but failed. The bullet buried deep in your abdomen would kill you soon, but Kante found your twitching like a dying roach amusing, and pathetic. So pathetic that he spent a whole five seconds just staring at you before walking away, calm as ever, like he always did with his victims.

But then Marcus, Kante’s comrade, gaped as he saw Kante suddenly turn around and walk back toward you. “Kante, bro? Are you nuts?”

“Ugh. Fucking hell…” Kante cursed under his breath, annoyed, as he pulled you up and flung you over his shoulder. You winced and cried out in pain, but really, what did you expect? No one had ever taught him how to be gentle.

“How can someone who’s dying make this much noise? Shut the fuck up.” Kante muttered, hoisting you up on his shoulder and striding out of the blood-drenched room. This time, he seemed… in a hurry.