THUD.
In a small, smoke-filled room, a hammer striking an iron tabletop resounded with a loud bang.
A hook-nosed man with a receding hairline pointed at Amon's face, spittle flying as he cursed, "Our CIA has lost so many elite operatives! We were about to close the net, and then you show up and steal the fruits of victory—aren't you afraid of choking on them?"
Amon wiped the spit from his face and looked emotionlessly at the hook-nosed man. "Has anyone ever told you that your breath stinks?"
"Fuck..." the man began to retort.
BANG.
A gunshot reverberated through the small room.
The bald, hook-nosed man's eyes widened. His finger, still pointing at Amon, trembled. A scorched, red bullet hole had appeared on his forehead. He slumped backward softly, dropping dead on the spot.
