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Summary
"My fault?" Omen asked as he glanced back, twirling a karambit with a clawed finger. "How was it mine? That's not even the most distracting thing I could've done, Sova." He retorted with a chuckle, making eye contact with the Russian.
A moment of silence occurred between the two as Sova reloaded his gun and Omen stopped twirling the knife in his hand. While no words were exchanged, several thoughts were shared.
"Corner," Sova said, stepping towards Omen. His tone changed to a more serious one. There was a hint of mischief lying in the undertones. The shadowed figure immediately started walking backward, almost obediently. "Sova-" Omen started, but the Russian shook his head and interrupted, lifting a hand to point behind Omen. "Right here." A quiet focused "okay..." was uttered from the shadow.
