The air in the underground morgue always carried a faint smell of formaldehyde, as cold and biting as the wind deep within a glacier.
Under the dim yellow light, two bodies that had not yet fully cooled lay on metal tables. One was the attacker, with dark skin and facial features reminiscent of an African tribe, his face covered in strange tribal tattoos, and a vibrant sunflower tattoo on his left chest; the other was Mercer, the assistant of Team B6, with bullet holes densely covering his chest, his internal organs nearly torn to shreds. There was no need to say more; his death was gruesome.
In the corridor, everyone stood in silence. Even the forensic pathologist, who had seen countless deaths, could not remain calm in the face of a fallen comrade.
Diana's figure, stepping in the rhyt
