While our staffs clean the splintered glass on the floor and the police ransack my place, here I am, sitting comfortably on the sofa in my living area. My neck angles as my furious stare darts to wherever these police officers go. Clanking of my stuffs, screeching of cabinets and sometimes thudding of objects echo in all corners of my penthouse but I remain calm and seated.
Nina sits beside me and lays the medical kit on the carpet. I twitch when she soaks my right arm with rubbing alcohol. The sharp sensation aggravates my already throbbing wounds. She softly wipes the excess alcohol and the remaining blood with cotton before taking out a needle and a thread from the kit.
“This will hurt a little,” she says.
“Yeah. Thanks for the warning,” I reply with an obvious sarcasm.
After chort
