You resist the urge to tear through the place. Shady or not, this is still government property, and that'll come out of your pay.
You carefully check under the desks, only finding some scraps of food. The closets have cleaning supplies and office materials. The bookcases don't hide any secret passages, as far as you can tell.
You're not really in the mood for napping, but you're in no state to go anywhere. You slump to the ground and pass out.
When you wake up, the sun has set and the room is dark. However, a lone light shines above you.
As your eyes focus, you realize the light is a crystal orb, enscribed with a sigil of a god of light. Nearby, a bloke in a blue sash packs away a needle and a ball of thread. A stitcher. You feel your stomach and almost catch your claw on a stitched cut.
"If you pull that out," the bloke says, "I'm not sewing it back. Stuff's all packed, got it?"
Comments
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead