Red. There was red everywhere.
Back at the building, inside one of the many dilapidated apartment rooms, Adam's blood had painted every surface red. It dripped from the walls, pooled in the corners, and splattered across what remained of the furniture.
The blood was so much so that it already covered the sole of Adam's boots. It was, in the most literal sense, a pool of blood.
Adam wasn't dodging anymore. Every punch Bjorn threw, Adam met with his own. Every kick, every elbow, every devastating blow—Adam absorbed them all and returned fire.
A crack, and his left arm snapped at the elbow… a bone even stuck out.
More. You've experienced worse, Adam. This is nothing. This is absolutely nothing at all.
A snap, and his right wrist bent backward, or maybe it even rolled backward.
