MARK
Blood was everywhere: on my hands, on my shirt, and smeared against the walls beside me. The metallic smell of blood was strong in the air, and unlike what one would expect, it didn't repulse me.
No, it didn't. There was a certain thrill that came with the possession and wielding of guns pointed at shooting targets, as I loved to call them.
Just like the three men in pools of blood around me with bullets lodged deep into their guts.
And just like Mateo who'd become a mass of cold flesh anytime soon.
I was used to the bloodlust and madness. Whenever it came, an i***t was always ready to present himself or herself as a scapegoat.
"For the last time, Mateo, what the f**k—"
"I will speak!" he blurted out so fast I knitted my brows in suspicion.
The cold metal of the gun pointed at
