"You're forcing me."
Boye trembled all over, as if from fear, or perhaps rage.
"You're forcing me to do this."
His hand shot towards his waist, using all his strength, even leaving four clear scratch marks in the fat.
Then, it was raised.
A black gun muzzle aimed at Furl as Boye roared hysterically.
"You won't live either, you bitch! You left me no way out! It's all your fault!"
"I advise you to calm down. If I die, that useless son of yours won't escape either. The boss will definitely skin him alive."
Furl forced a facade of calm composure. Boye's son was the leash the gang had around his neck.
The two Scavengers were locked in a tense standoff, with no time to pay attention to a corpse lying on the operating table.
Between them, Arthur's body lay quietly, the yellow liquid still steadily dripping into his veins.
Excruciating pain continuously assaulted Arthur's soul, yet he felt an abnormal excitement—
The pain in his limbs also brought with it sensation. It was as if his limbs were regrowing, awareness spreading outward inch by inch along with the agony.
Neither of the two men noticed the corpse's finger twitching slightly.
In front of Arthur, Furl, seeing Boye frozen once more, immediately felt he had intimidated the other man, a trademark sneer appearing on his lips.
"That son of yours… I'll look after him for you, how about that?"
As he spoke, he even smiled and spread his hands.
"Leaving a son behind in the world means your trip wasn't for nothing, don't you think?"
Seeing the mockery on Furl's face, Boye suddenly laughed too.
The stupidity and panic on that fat face vanished completely in an instant, as if he'd become a different person.
He violently grabbed Furl's hair, shoving the gun barrel directly into his throat.
Boye's sudden attack was like a predator pouncing from ambush; once he had his prey, he sank his fangs in deep.
He stared coldly at the bloody foam bubbling from Furl's mouth, who now looked like a live fish on a chopping block.
"You know, you were actually right. That bottle of drugs… I swapped it."
He gestured with his chin, roughly adjusting the angle of the gun, the black metal barrel grinding into the flesh of Furl's mouth.
"Know what? You need to have some weaknesses when dealing with people. Otherwise, no one trusts you."
"And also… that son I put out in the open really is a waste."
He examined the gun's position with a serious expression, then nodded in satisfaction.
Under Furl's wide-eyed stare, Boye calmly pulled the trigger.
The bullet from the large-caliber power pistol exploded in the other man's mouth like a naval cannon shell.
Furl's skullcap flew high into the air; he was dead instantly.
Boye smirked viciously. Given the image everyone had of him, how could he possibly have the guts to deliberately kill a superior?
Clearly, Furl, blinded by greed, had threatened him into colluding, attempting to embezzle the profits from this prime hog.
By pinning all the blame on Furl, Boye could wash his hands of the whole affair.
On the table, Arthur watched the scene unfold without making a sound. The other man had a gun; his own chances were few.
The fat man, his face splattered with blood, stared blankly at the corpse on the floor with a grim smile. The gun was still in his hand, but his grip had noticeably relaxed.
The gun was Arthur's chance. His current body was weak and feeble; how could he possibly subdue this fat man with physical strength alone?
Disarming him was the wisest choice.
Boye was reveling freely in his victory, never imagining that the corpse on the operating table was quietly moving its hands towards the gun he held.
He had personally chosen what was in that anesthesia bottle. He was confident no one could survive it.
But Arthur's very existence was an anomaly.
Clang!
Seeing the moment was right, Arthur lunged. His arms locked tightly around the fat man's gun hand, and his body weight slammed downward towards the floor.
Using his body's gravity to compensate for his weakness was the best method Arthur could devise in his current state.
The sudden attack was effective. When Arthur scrambled to his feet, he saw the fat man's utterly bewildered face.
But Arthur had no intention of wasting words. He pulled the gun from his own grasp—now his—and aimed it directly at the other man.
This fat man was cunning, ruthless, and decisive, like a venomous snake hiding in the grass.
The best way to deal with such a person was to shoot directly.
And that's what Arthur did. He pulled the trigger without giving the other any opportunity.
Bang!
The powerful recoil shoved him back a step. Even with both hands gripping the gun, he felt a sharp pain shoot through his wrists.
The recoil had thrown his aim off. Not waiting to see if the bullet had been fatal, he quickly fired another shot in the same direction.
Bang!
A throbbing pain shot through his wrist. Looking again, the fat man's large body lay motionless on the ground, face down.
Arthur frowned at the scene. Ignoring the pain in his wrist, he gripped the pistol tightly.
When he had fired, the other man had been facing him. How could he possibly be lying face down now?
Though he couldn't understand why such a powerful handgun hadn't killed him, Arthur was certain the fat man wasn't dead.
He staggered to his feet, found a medicine cabinet about half his height, and braced the gun's grip on it.
This would transfer most of the recoil away from his wrists.
Arthur decided to empty the entire magazine. He wanted to see for sure if this damn fat man was dead or not.
Boye lay face down on the ground, not daring to move.
The bioplastic armor skin on his chest was completely shattered, exposing raw flesh and tissue; he could even glimpse his ribs.
This skin was something he had scrimped and saved for over the years, using his son's school fees as a pretext. Now it was completely ruined.
When that hog came closer, he would crush its bones one by one, slice its flesh piece by piece, only then could he vent the rage in his heart.
Another point: since he wasn't dead, he'd harvest him instead. That would recoup some of the losses.
For now, he just had to wait for him to come…
But no footsteps came. Instead, a sound like metal clacking reached his ears.
A sense of foreboding slowly rose in Boye's heart.
Goddammit, what the hell was that bastard doing?
The next moment gave him his answer.
Bang!
Accompanied by an ear-splitting gunshot, Boye's back felt like it had been hit by a cannonball.
The immense force crushed him hard against the floor, the ribs in his chest snapping one after another.
He vomited a gush of blood, along with large chunks of internal organ fragments. This time, it was clear he wouldn't make it.
Using the last of his strength, he rolled over to look.
That tall, lanky figure was crouched behind a medicine cabinet, leaning out slightly, the muzzle of the leveled gun emitting wisps of smoke.
He had won too many times. So many that even when ambushed, even when critically wounded, he still believed he would win.
Because in the old script, he was always the one laughing last.
Pity. Some things, you can't afford to lose even once.
Bang!
No time for further thought, not even time for despair, before another bullet followed.
Watching the bullet bury itself in the other's chest, leaving a gaping hole, Arthur finally let out a deep breath.
What kind of monster was this guy?
The third bullet—he saw it clearly—hit the other's back but didn't penetrate, just left a black mark.
He could still get up, still roll over.
Arthur wasn't completely ignorant of this world. After all, he'd been a spectator for over twenty years; he knew some basic common knowledge.
Pity the original owner was an outright recluse, his understanding of the world itself limited, so Arthur naturally couldn't know too much.
But he knew at the very least it was 2076. If nothing was amiss, it was less than two hundred years after his death.
The world had actually become like this.
He shook his head, trying to clear the chaotic thoughts from his mind, while simultaneously suppressing the feeling of physical weakness.
The top priority now was to get the hell out of this place.
Thanks to the fat man's plan, there was no one else in the hideout at this time. Otherwise, those gunshots would have drawn everyone.
He tucked the gun into his waist on the left side, a position ideal for a quick draw, and staggered towards the outside.
Beyond the door was a dimly lit corridor. It was night outside; colorful lights streamed in through a window at the far end of the hallway.
Dragging his weak body, he headed in that direction.
The air was thick with the smell of blood, mixed with the stench of rotting flesh.
Just from the smell, one could imagine how disgusting the scenes hidden in the darkness must be.
Descending a narrow staircase, the environment suddenly opened up.
By the faint light from the ceiling, he could see this floor was a large hall, filled haphazardly with many hospital beds.
Though white sheets covered them, the outlines under the sheets made it clear there were no "vacant beds."
Across from the staircase, Arthur saw the exit of this damned place: a heavy-looking alloy door, windowless, giving a sense of solidity.
The surroundings were eerily quiet; Arthur's footsteps echoed hollowly in the hall.
Just as he reached the door, his hand about to touch it, a strange, wheezing breath came from behind him.
The sound held a rasping whistle, as if something was stuck in the throat, causing labored breathing.
It seemed there was a survivor in the hall after all. But given Arthur's current physical state, ignoring it would be the sensible thing to do.
His hand hovered by the door. It was a common sensor door; the slightest touch would open it.
A long moment later…
"Goddamn it," Arthur cursed under his breath, and turned back towards the source of the sound.