The assassins leapt at him, emerging from the shadows like ravenous night-fangs, claws and daggers raised, ready to strike where even light refused to look. But they never reached their target. Because before their momentum could turn into motion, before their weapons could find any grip on flesh, the crimson storm had already judged them.
The needles caught them mid-air, without hesitation, without respite, without a chance to understand what was hitting them. And their bodies — once silent, precise, conditioned for assassination — were torn to shreds in an instant. Nothing remained but scraps of flesh, voiceless screams, streaks of blood shattered through the air like so many broken promises. They were nothing now.
