Wine and Gun

"How boring it is to put me in the position of the victims before you—especially when you admit we are different," Albarino murmured against his lips, the tone of voice As if on the borderline between extreme calm and utter madness, "If that's the case, dismantle me, rebuild me, brand me, show me in front of them, maybe you'll—"

Then his voice stopped abruptly.

Although Albarino didn't want to struggle, Herstal pressed his neck with one hand, a little more force than needed, carefully controlling the total amount of air the opponent inhaled, and it was inevitable Bruises are left on those skins.

When Herstal gnawed from his lips to the bloody skin at the corners of his mouth, Albarino's hand suddenly climbed up his chin.

Albarino had tried unsuccessfully to wipe the blood from his cheek with that hand, and now there was still some blood on his finger, so he rubbed a dark red mark on Herstal's chin. Herstal could feel his vocal cords vibrate under his fingers as he spoke, his voice still hoarse.

"Hey," Albarino whispered, with a strangely drunken smile on his face, "be careful, don't leave DNA behind."

Herstal stared at him.

There was almost a gloomy look in Albarino's eyes, and the shadow of the flame on his cheek still made him look strangely smiling: "Otherwise, wait until you break me into pieces and show me to the police. When you're in front of them, they'll find you."

How can the frightened and vague fingers push back,

Her slack thighs, that feathered favor?

Under the white-hot sprint, the fallen mortal

How can you not feel that magical heart beating?

When Albarino was pressed to the floor by the opponent, the back of his head hit the floor ungently. His hair was still full of blood that had not dried up, and the pain was tingling, and it could be imagined that the scalp had cracked somewhere.

Albarino hissed, sounding out of breath when he laughed: "You don't want to concussion the victim, and then you kill them slowly, and they can't bear it. The place vomited - that shouldn't be very dignified for a pianist."

"You seem to put yourself in the victim's shoes without a hitch," Herstal pointed out, dipping his fingers into the hem of Albarino's shirt and touching his belly, the other man because of the movement of his fingers. She shrank slightly, coldly.

But for the most part, he lay uncomfortably but calmly, half of his body immersed in the unextinguished light of the stove, and the other half of his body immersed in darkness, illuminated by lightning flashing outside the window from time to time.

The rain hadn't stopped, and if Elliot Evans didn't die, Herstal might have turned into a corpse after the rain.

"Why not? I'm really curious about what you would do." Albarino replied calmly, "When you face a situation that is completely different from the past, you often burst out with a new power. At such times... …”

He lowered his voice a little.

"I would feel that the meaning of your life seems to be more important than decorating your body with delphiniums."

Herstal stopped unbuttoning Albarino's buttons, and just straddled his lap, took out a pair of rǔ rubber gloves from his jacket pocket, and began to put on the gloves slowly. At this moment, the rage in his voice seemed to fade away briefly, and the embers cooled into something colder and harder: "So, you went to the killer Qiángni just to see how I killed him."

"I have to admit," Albarino smiled, "the process of your killing is far more beautiful than the lackluster displays you make—you are a delight to watch when you take people's lives. "

Herstal put on rǔ rubber gloves, then took out a ball of metal wire from his pocket, he pressed Albarino's hands above his head, and tightly bound his wrist with the ball of wire.

"Piano strings? Really?" Albarino asked with interest.

"I'm not going to hang you with this thing, if that's what you're asking," Herstal replied. Some part of him actually knew that Albarino probably didn't want to struggle at all. However, on the one hand, he didn't want to take this risk, and on the other hand, of course, every aspect of doing things must be accurate.

"If you bind people like this, your limbs will die sooner or later. Trust me, I'm a doctor." Albarino reminded him.

Herstal sneered: "If only you could remember this when you saw the killer Qiángni's style of tying people up."

Albarino murmured in a low voice, probably just bemoaning his vengeance. In any case, he was soon quiet—for Herstal drew a knife from the scabbard behind his waist, the blade flashing a cold light in the darkness, and the reflective tail was reflected in Alba for a moment. Lino's eyes.

It seemed that for a moment, Albarino held his breath for a while, even if he was indeed a psychopath, this was obviously completely unconditional. His eyes were still flickering with a look that meant he was interested, like a college student looking at an extremely difficult proof problem; but his body was subconsciously tense, and this was the best thing Herstal could see in him. Straightforward response.

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