Henrik made the first move.
He took off his black cloak, and Rhett's jaw dropped from what he saw.
Underneath the black fabric, Henrik was shirtless and only wore simple black shorts. What shocked Rhett wasn't what was on Henrik's body, but rather, what was inside. Or more accurately, fused with him.
His torso was rife with gun barrels poking from his ribs, forearms and chest, like a macabre demon. The gun barrels even exposed his flesh and muscle when they protruded outside—raw, angry wounds where metal met tissue, skin stretched taut around cold steel. That was why Henrik's footsteps felt so heavy whenever he ran, why he covered himself with the black cloak.
This was what he was hiding underneath his cloak, lugging several kilograms of steel on his body, why his face and fingers looked so thin and gaunt. The weight had carved him hollow, stolen the fat from his bones until only sinew and purpose remained.
What an absolute monster.
