Wine and Gun

The corners of Albarino's eyes were red, and his eyes were full of physiological tears that were stimulated. Even so, he seemed morbidly too fond of this experience. Even though he was covered in blood, that didn't stop him from raising the corners of his mouth and giving Herstal a defiant smile.

Then Herstal let go of the hand that was pressing on his wrist and put it on his neck instead.

His palm was pressed against his Adam's apple, his pulse was beating violently and his skin was sweaty and sticky, and when his fingers pressed into those soft skin, he could feel the other person swallowing almost uncontrollably.

Herstal occupied the opponent's body in accordance with his own desires, and also slowly tightened his fingers in accordance with his own desires. He could feel Albarino's silent struggle when his breathing was blocked. This method was better than blocking it directly. The blood supply to the brain was slower, more painful, and more to his liking.

The other's breathing sounded harder and harder each time, until it finally fell silent with a sudden hiss.

Herstal pushed against each other's legs until his body was bent completely cruelly, opened his legs, let his knees go all the way up to his chest, and felt the blood in Albarino's blood. Flowing down his chest and abdomen, slowly soaking through the front of his clothes. Albarino unconsciously tightened his mouth in the last suffocating convulsions, until he slammed into the deepest, breaking through those spasmodic soft mucous membranes to a fiery and almost painful high cháo.

Albarino must have been in shock for a few seconds under hypoxia, no doubt, until Herstal let go - he really spent half a second thinking about it in the process, or else Just strangling Albarino just like that - getting air back down his tormented windpipe and into his lungs.

There was no need for Herstal to hide that he also had a sore back, and his legs were numb from the uncomfortable posture and wooden floor: after all, he was the one who was imprisoned by the killer Qiángni for two days, just after a serial killer. Getting back to his job the night he got out of his hands was actually a bit too dedicated—even by serial killer standards.

So he felt he had good reason to slow down: he wasn't in a hurry to get out of the other person's body, just flattened the other person's leg. Albarino lay in a pool of his own blood, his body twitching slightly, blood still dripping from the messy nicks in his abdomen, his skin glistening with sweat.

The smell of white wine in the room had been drowned out by the smell of blood, and a few dying orange sparks gleamed in the stove. Albarino stared at him--even though his eyes were scattered, a smile curled his lips.

There was silence for a while, then Herstal whispered, "Am I caught in your snare?"

——They came this far because of Albarino’s permission.

Albarino's voice was hoarse and broken, always winning.

"Perhaps so," he said. "The pianist."

The waist trembled for a while, and it was planted from then on

Destroyed, roofs and towers burnt,

and the death of Agamemnon.

Bart Hardy was in a deep sleep when the harsh phone rang. The sound of the rain outside the window had almost stopped, and it should have been a good night.

He put one hand around his wife, their baby girl crammed between them like a rabbit, flushed faces emerging from the quilt. When the phone rang, the little girl let out a snort and turned her head towards her mother's arms.

His wife was already awake, and when Hardy hurriedly turned on the headlamp on his side, she gave him a confused and puzzled look.

Hardy was familiar with the line-up of a WLPD colleague calling him, breaking his sleep, telling him where an alcoholic husband shot his wife, and a night shift man was killed by a robber. In the dark alleys, where the gangs set fire and left a place of corpses... This is Westland, this is his life.

But maybe not: the caller ID was a completely unfamiliar number, which caught his attention.

"Hello?" Hardy answered the phone frowning. "This is Bart Hardy."

There was a slight hiss of electric current, and then a voice that was clearly processed by a voice changer rang out, and the voice seemed to meticulously read the script word for word when speaking, which was probably to cover up the characteristics of its own words.

"Good evening," said the harsh voice slowly, "Sergeant Hardy."

Tom, who was on the night shift, was planning to bring a stack of site investigation reports to the forensic doctors' office, and the Westland City Forensic Medical Bureau's forensic doctors started their day with these reports. But he was only halfway there - and then Officer Hardy hurried in, followed by a group of SWATs with guns.

"Ah!" Tom was really taken aback by them, and almost threw the report in his hand, and Hardy slammed on the brakes in front of him and asked, "Where is your morgue?"

Even for a trainee forensic doctor, the beginning was a little too scary. Poor Tommy, spurred by Officer Hardy's almost flaming gaze, ran all the way in the direction of the mortuary—and halfway through, he saw their forensic chief mingling with the crowd, omg.

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