Was this it?
Seventeen years of his life, not even full — just memory scraps of his grandmother's voice, that gentle smile on her wrinkled face, the simple birthdays where she never failed to get him a cake regardless of their tight budget, the sound of tires screeching when he was two which took his parents' lives, then the meaningless fist fight against delinquents until he was grounded by blindness.
Seventeen years…
Mikel scoffed at the face of death. "Fuck you."
The man smirked in amusement as he coldly responded, "Even now, you refuse to die quietly."
At the same time, Doom's screen glitched for the last time, pulsing as it showed one last message:
[System Emergency Protocol… ready for launch…]
Mikel's neck rippled from the pressure of the tank-topped man's hand coming close to it. A thin slash appeared on the side of his neck, starting with just half an inch until the slit stretched wider.
But then —
CRASH!
