A faint zap disturbed the silence of an otherwise calm room. One of the ceiling lamp malfunctions wasn't out of the ordinary for such an old place, but in its current state, the flickering light only accentuated the sickening atmosphere of its interior.
A disaster had struck the place, leaving a field of dead bodies in its wake. Harry watched from the entrance, his nose upturned in disgust. The men lying in a pool of their own blood had once been his. They were all capable soldiers, enhanced with enough bionics to be at the peak of Level 2, and trained constantly to ensure they remain the elite force he wanted them to be.
Even after all the money he spent on them, they were all done in before they could even resist. The state of the room showed exactly that. Whatever happened in the small bar couldn't be considered a fight. No. It was an execution. A cold-blooded death sentence, delivered by someone who considered themselves the judge.
