Following Alice's slightly playful declaration, the room fell into a deathly silence.
Fox remained in that rigid posture for a full five seconds.
Her right hand still maintained the hollow grip of pulling a trigger, her knuckles showing a sickly pallor from excessive force.
The physiological instinct after escaping death caused her chest to heave violently.
After a long while, she raised her hand somewhat hollowly and blankly, using her fingertips to touch the bloodstain on her cheek.
Warm and viscous, with a metallic, rust-like texture.
The sensation of pain seemed to finally breach her psychological defenses at this moment, officially reaching her brain.
That sharp sting was like a long, thin silver needle, precisely piercing her neural center, forcibly dragging her back from that trance-like state of self-destruction.
She was still alive.
This realization was like a dull blow lacking reality, leaving her dizzy and lightheaded.
Her meticulously designed curtain call, the only way she had to atone for her sins, had been interrupted by an outsider in a nearly crude and arrogant manner.
She slowly turned her head, her neck making a mechanical clicking sound, as if rusted gears were struggling to mesh.
There wasn't a hint of gratitude for her new lease on life in her eyes; instead, they burned with an extreme anger at being desecrated and offended.
That look was like a wounded leopardess, staring deathly at the intruder who had snatched away its prey in a desperate situation.
"My name was on the loom; the blood of countless innocents is on my hands. Only my death can repay this debt. By what right do you interfere with my judgment?"
"Judgment? Don't make me laugh, honey."
Alice gave a light chuckle, but the laughter carried a hint of cynical coldness that saw through the ways of the World.
Her slender fingers deftly holstered the silver revolver back into the holster at her waist, the movement smooth and flowing, carrying an innate elegance and danger.
She strode toward Sloan's corpse, the soles of her shoes stepping on glass shards with a crisp cracking sound, each step seeming to trample upon Fox's so-called faith.
Sloan's corpse still had its eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling in death as if still questioning why fate had abandoned its most loyal spokesperson at the last moment.
Alice crouched down, as if rummaging for parts in an old piece of furniture, and pulled a brass key with complex engravings from Sloan's suit pocket.
"Ding."
She spun the key around her fingertip, the metallic clinking sound particularly piercing in the dead silent room.
Suddenly, Alice stood up and sent the gun in Fox's hand flying with a kick.
The specialized pistol slid in a long arc across the smooth wooden floor, finally hitting the shadows in the corner with a clang.
"You owe this World a blood debt, that's true."
Alice's voice was cool and firm.
"the loom judged you as an error because of your past actions. If errors only existed to be erased, the entropy of this World would be far too boring. What I want you to do is correct that error. Not through a bullet through your own head, but by using your damn, priceless marksmanship to save those who shouldn't have died."
Fox's fingers twitched violently; she tried to get up, tried to argue, even tried to pounce and tear this arrogant woman apart.
Every cell in her body was screaming for an end.
However, Alice didn't give her the chance.
In that lightning-fast instant, Alice's movements were so quick that Wesley, standing to the side, couldn't see them clearly at all.
She pulled a pre-filled potent sedative from her pocket and, with a precision nearly like that of a surgeon, slammed it into Fox's neck.
"Ugh—"
Fox's body trembled violently, her eyes wide, and she immediately felt a cold and overbearing liquid rush through her carotid artery toward her brain.
"Get some sleep, martyr," Alice whispered in her ear, her voice low like a magic spell. "When you wake up, everything will be fine."
Watching Fox collapse limply like a puppet that had lost its spine, Wesley gulped hard nearby.
His hand holding the gun was still trembling slightly; those heart-stopping few minutes just now had completely drained his courage.
"She'll kill us when she wakes up," Wesley said with a trembling voice. "She's Fox; she's the top assassin here."
"Then we'll bind her claws first." Alice stood straight and smoothed out non-existent wrinkles. "An assassin without faith is like a compass that has lost its magnetic field. Until she finds a new direction, she'll only feel lost."
Just then, a heavy and chaotic sound of footsteps came from the end of the corridor.
The intense gunfight in the office just now, the loud crash of breaking glass, and that decisive bullet had completely alerted the entire Hive.
These top-tier killers, usually hidden in various corners of the textile mill under the cover of ordinary craftsmen, were now swarming out like hornets whose nest had been poked.
In the shadows of the corridor, a burly figure was the first to step out.
The Repairman.
He was shirtless, his solid muscles covered in old scars, dragging a heavy galvanized steel pipe in his hand.
The steel pipe scraped against the concrete floor, throwing up piercing sparks and making a tooth-grinding friction sound.
His gaze was like that of an enraged boar, full of primitive violence.
Following close behind was the Butcher.
His massive frame of over two hundred pounds blocked almost half the doorway, a heavy bone cleaver still stained with fresh pig blood in his hand.
He didn't need words; just standing there, he radiated a thick scent of blood and a sense of oppression.
the Gunsmith held his most prized modified gun, the dark muzzle scanning the room coldly.
His finger was constantly hooked on the edge of the trigger, ready to spit out a lethal metal storm at any moment.
Behind them were over a dozen silent Worker Bees.
Though they didn't have titles like the core members, every one of them was a martial artist and marksman who had crawled out of piles of corpses.
At this moment, the office was surrounded so tightly that even the air seemed to grow heavy from the accumulation of killing intent.
By all logic, the next second would turn this place into a blood-soaked meat grinder.
Standing in the center of the office, facing these former comrades, people who had fought alongside him and also pursued him relentlessly...
He displayed an extraordinary level of calm. Not only did he not raise his gun, but he also made a move that caught everyone off guard.
He slowly holstered the gun in his hand back into the holster at his waist.
In the logic of an assassin, this action was equivalent to suicide.
But he just stood quietly beside Sloan's cooling corpse, a sense of pity in his eyes after seeing through the absurdity of it all.
"Get out of the way if you don't want to die!" The Butcher let out a Beast-like roar, his bone cleaver swinging violently. "Cross, you bastard who betrayed the organization, I'll pull your guts out bit by bit and wrap them around your neck!"
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