Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 59 Blood
boom.

It cracked, it cracked, the world cracked, the taut thread suddenly snapped, a piece of paper was torn, a gash, alive, swallowing, swallowing everything.

Blood, warm blood, splattered on the walls, the floor, on my face, dripping down my nose and onto the corners of my mouth, salty, like licking iron railings and rusty water pipes.

My ears were ringing, the sound of the bell was stuck in my head, ringing and echoing, but I couldn't seem to get it out.

Did she fall, or not? Or did the world fall? Tables and chairs tilted, walls collapsed, and the room spun.

The blood was spreading, slowly, thickly, like some kind of living thing, mercury, a shadow that overwhelmed everything, overflowing the floor, seeping into the cracks in the wood, crawling towards the feet, crawling towards them.

But she lost her shape, collapsed, and crumbled into a puddle of rotten flesh.

Look over there, no, look over there, look, look, watch it, let it look at you.

Blood, her blood, your blood? Hot, wet, fishy, ​​sliding down my face, along the bridge of my nose, along the corners of my eyes, drop by drop, onto my lips, onto my tongue.

Where are her eyes? Open? Closed? Staring at what? Staring at him? Or staring at thin air?

The eyes are still there, but the contents inside are gone, like a light that has gone out, empty and desolate, like a door that is half open, letting the wind in, but the room is empty.

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to speak or breathe, but nothing came out.

The air got stuck in his throat, he was trapped, he stopped, and he died.

My feet can't move, the soles of my shoes are stuck to the floor, my socks are wet, blood seeps in, red, black, slowly getting darker, like a drop of ink falling into a white cloth, seeping, spreading, swallowing it up.

No matter how much you wipe, scrape, or wash, no matter how many years pass, the sound and the gunshots will not disappear, they will not completely disappear.

Someone knocked on the door, a knock, but the sound was off; there was a layer of fog behind it.

Who is calling his name? The voice is so far away, it seems unreal, as if it drifted from the past.

Is his name, the name that once belonged to him, still his? Is it still the same him from just now?

Is it still here, still in this room, still at this moment, still in this second, still in the world before this gunshot rang out?
His lips moved slightly, but there was no sound, no breath.

There was only one word, spoken softly, as the wind blew through the ashes, and they scattered at the slightest touch.

妈.
Zhou Yi suddenly snapped back to reality, breathing heavily.

The nightmare from my childhood has returned.

Gunshots, bloodshed, and images of his mother's suicide flashed through his mind, like an endless cycle from which he could not escape no matter how hard he struggled.

He braced himself against the edge of the bathtub, his forehead pressed against the cold tiles, and after a long while, he finally stood up from the water.

My body felt lighter than ever before, and the world before me was so clear it seemed to have been reloaded.

Zhou Yi looked down and found that the wound on his left arm had completely healed, and his skin was so smooth that not a single scar remained.

He had no time to delve into the drug's effects; he grabbed a towel, hastily dried himself, picked up his gun, and walked back to the bedroom.

Sunlight streamed in through the gaps in the curtains, casting dappled shadows on the carpet.

But Zhou Yi felt like he had just crawled out of his grave.

So many years have passed, yet those memories that should have been buried by time still haunt me.

Something was stuck in his chest, a dull, heavy feeling that made it hard for him to breathe.

Zhou Yi licked his chapped lips, picked up the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table, stared at the amber liquid for a moment, hesitated, and finally tilted his head back and took a big gulp.

The alcohol rolled down my throat, a burning sensation spreading along my chest, and a spicy heat surged in my stomach.

He closed his eyes, leaned against the edge of the table for a couple of seconds, and finally felt a rare moment of relaxation.

That's really weird.

They even added psychological attacks.

Zhou Yi sighed helplessly, took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and lit it with a snap.

The bitterness of nicotine, mixed with the spiciness of alcohol and the lingering suffocation in his lungs, finally dragged him back to reality little by little.

Let bygones be bygones. The important thing now is to find them.

Mikhail Koman.

The Romanians made their fortune by trading "high-end models" between Eastern Europe and the Middle East.

Occasionally, he also acts as a middleman, handling some intelligence transactions.

I met him through an introduction.

I never expected that my intention to relax would lead to trouble because of the system.

Zhou Yi casually stubbed out his cigarette, picked up his phone, turned on the screen, and glanced at the time.

January 2013, 6, 19:11 am.

Good heavens, he's been unconscious for a full six hours since the injection.

time does not wait.

Seeing this, Zhou Yi stopped dawdling, changed her clothes, grabbed her car keys, and prepared to leave.

Before leaving, he thought for a moment and decided to take the pistol with him and put it in the holster on his waist.

As I pushed open the hotel door, a gentle breeze blew by, carrying the unique damp smell of Bucharest.

In the distance, modern glass curtain walls stand out starkly among the gray, old buildings.

It was nearing noon, and there weren't many pedestrians.

Several men in suits sat outside a cafe on the street corner, talking in hushed tones.

Zhou Yi lit another cigarette, walked to his rented dark gray Mercedes-Benz E350, opened the door, got in, and started the engine.

The car's speakers automatically started playing a program, in which the female host was speaking rapidly.

Chattering away.

I couldn't understand a single word.

Of course, Zhou Yi was too lazy to turn it off, and so he drove at high speed toward his destination, smoking all the way, accompanied by the exotic noise.

Koman's "modeling agency" was located in a three-story brick building in the old town.

There was no signboard; it was as unassuming as an ordinary private firm.

Zhou Yi made no attempt to conceal his arrival, and parked his car openly on the street.

After getting out of the car, he straightened the hem of his jacket to make sure his holster wouldn't be easily spotted, and then walked toward the gray building.

There were no bodyguards standing guard at the entrance.

The only security measure is an inconspicuous camera above the door frame and an electronic doorbell next to it.

Zhou Yi raised his hand and pressed the doorbell twice. A few seconds later, the door lock unlocked automatically.

As you push open the door, warm yellow light shines on the smooth marble floor, and several modernist paintings hang on the walls.

The receptionist was a young blonde woman with delicate features and a tall figure.

She clearly remembered Zhou Yi's appearance and her boss's instructions.

So, the moment she saw the man enter, she flashed an exceptionally warm smile:

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr. John. How may I help you today?"

“Tell Koeman I need to speak with him.”

The blonde woman's smile remained unchanged as her slender fingers dialed a number on the intercom on the table.

"Boss, Mr. John is here and wants to see you."

(End of this chapter)