The prosecutor and the defense attorney stared at each other. At that moment, both of them had the same dumbfounded understanding.
After all...
Each of them had been counting on the other to die first, buying them a little more time.
But now?
Big Black Prosecutor Thomson was the first to recover. He picked up the backpack that had just fallen to the ground and walked straight toward a restroom in the distance without even looking back.
The defense attorney also turned and left.
Inside the restroom.
There was a thud.
After Big Black Prosecutor Thomson locked the restroom door, he sat down on the toilet lid and wiped his face. His expression was filled with hatred as he cursed the incompetent NYPD inwardly.
So much time had passed, yet what had happened? The NYPD seemed to have forgotten about the case. Even now, they still had not caught the mastermind.
Incompetent.
Just then.
Bang!
"What..."
"Ugh!"
Big Black Prosecutor Thomson stared in terror at the kicked-open stall door. Then he watched as a man wearing a hooded jacket and a T-shirt printed with a skull suddenly appeared before him.
"Shh, shh, shh!"
Frank covered Big Black Prosecutor Thomson's terrified, screaming thick black lips with his right hand. In a hoarse voice, as though comforting him, he said, "Quiet, quiet. Don't get excited. This is what you said."
Big Black Prosecutor Thomson whimpered into his hand.
With a clang.
As Big Black Prosecutor Thomson's pupils contracted, a sharp dagger appeared in Frank's right hand. His hoarse voice, paired with his somewhat haggard face after racing three thousand miles through the night, remained calm as he said, "You have two choices now. Either you die, or I let you taste the pain of losing your wife and children. What will you