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Summary
Gihun hoists the Frontman up, shoving him like a ragdoll up against the wall until he’s sure there can be no resistance.
There’s a weak undernote of a scent here, something distinctly not his. So used to the sterility of the Frontman it takes moments for him to register it, perhaps a failing suppressor? It takes him less time to recognise it, evidently softer than his own but still bitter and burnt, like coffee and charred cinnamon sugar. He knows this scent…
“...Youngil?” He breathes.
“Youngil is dead.” Comes the response, voice despondent and unfeeling.
Series
- Part 1 of Dice Anthology