ALEKSANDER
Blood. Lots of it.
I’ve gotten used to the sight. Mostly because I’ve lost enough of my own to stop flinching at it. Doesn’t mean I like it. It just means it doesn’t shake me anymore.
The coppery taste sticks in the air. It seeps into the floor, works its way into my tongue and the back of my throat until it’s all I can taste.
That’s the thing about blood, it gets everywhere. Stains your hands, your clothes, the room you’re standing in. Doesn’t matter how much you scrub, it never really leaves.
But I don't really care about the blood, or the lifeless body cooling in the chair. I've seen enough of both for a lifetime. It's the one standing before me with a grin on his face that I give a f**k about.
Sergei is slumped in the chair, ropes digging into his wrists so much tha
