Franz's POV
The rope went taut. Elliot's shoes scraped the floor, then lifted, trembling, twitching.
Franz stood still, one hand on the blood-slick cord, breathing hard. Sweat mixed with blood dripped from his body. His fingers throbbed, but he barely noticed. The adrenaline was beginning to fade.
[ Ah? I think he was trying to say something.]
Franz exhaled through gritted teeth, chest rising and falling.
"Fuck you" he muttered. "I'm too tired for any of that shit now."
He turned away. His boots echoed against the marble, stepping over shell casings and bodies.
He moved down the grand staircase slowly, every movement dragging. His arms ached. His side throbbed from the wound beneath his torn hoodie. The hallway reeked of smoke, blood, and silence.
He reached one of the dead guards. Knelt. Took a phone. Then the crushed pack of cigarettes from the man's jacket.
He lit one.
The taste hit his tongue like fire and regret.
