"Now we are done," Oliver rose up from his kneeling position, appearing a bit exhausted from the little work of art he had been performing.
He raised a hand to his face and briefly wiped off the stains of blood that were already drying over his skin, flaking slightly with the motion.
He was stained with blood all over, but none of it was his own. He was tired—not from battle, but from dealing with... a few loose ends.
Oliver's empty gaze drifted toward the group of Players—the same group that had once chased him down. Now, they were all pinned to the ground, their hands and legs nailed into the cold rock, wrists slit and oozing blood endlessly.
Some of them were missing limbs. Others were carved open in different places, each wound deliberately placed to maximize the slow, unbearable bleed.
The metallic scent of blood hung thick in the air, suffocating, almost alive.
It was a torturous sight to watch.
"Why? Why are you doing this?"
