Palmer felt he should set aside the conflicts with Vasilina for the moment, as there was a more pressing matter at hand.
Outside the window, the blazing firelight was unending, and the roars of the Bloodthirsty echoed like the symphony of the apocalypse.
Yet inside, it presented a scene of harmony. Zefirin sat on the bed, the horrifying Chain Saw Scythe laid across her knees, while Palmer was tied to a chair, bound like a carefully wrapped holiday gift.
The room was filled with a faint red mist, casting a gentle pink glow under the refracted light, but Palmer felt no beauty in it; with every breath, he inhaled large amounts of toxins.
It was over, all over.
Palmer tilted his head upwards, trying his best not to let his tears flow.
Am I really such an unlucky guy? Why did I sleep so deeply, not even noticing the enemy's invasion? Forget about that, how did I even get captured? Worse still, of all people to be captured by, it was the Night Race.
