The flames roared in the clearing, a towering inferno that consumed the father and his sons, their bodies reduced to writhing silhouettes in the merciless blaze.
The father's muffled screams, pierced the night before fading into silence, leaving only the crackle of burning flesh and the acrid stench of petrol and charred skin.
Kafka stood a few paces away, his face bathed in the flickering orange glow, his expression utterly blank. He watched the fire with the detached calm of someone observing a bonfire, his eyes devoid of remorse or satisfaction, as if the horror unfolding before him was no more significant than a routine chore.
The assassins, scattered around the clearing, were a stark contrast—pale, trembling, their faces etched with the trauma of what they'd witnessed.
