William Stonefield had many children and no few grandchildren. Though Sir William considered most of them worthless, there were naturally clear hierarchies among them.
Those who were valued, those who were ignored, those who were despised... those with power, those with money, those with prestige, and those with nothing who simply enjoyed life...
Though no one had ever said it aloud, the Stonefields had unconsciously divided themselves into different groups, with obvious barriers separating them from one another.
But amid the process of flesh being ground into pulp, those distinctions finally ceased to exist.
The Werewolf Golem seized an old woman as if she were a chick and swung its claws—her head flew away, while her headless body was casually tossed aside, landing neatly on the balcony.
Blood poured down like a waterfall.
He was already growing weary of this slaughter, yet deep within him seemed to be a howling void. Whether he lay quietly in Brooklyn's underground station or fought and killed with savage intensity, nothing seemed capable of filling that hollow.
The frustration with nowhere to vent made the Werewolf increasingly vicious. Like the God of Death, he leapt between private boxes, every strike taking a living life. Blood stained the luxurious velvet curtains and Persian carpets red.
Chris finally recovered from the shock that "even the Stonefield family could be treated as gifts," only to find that the Vampire had already left him behind.
He stood there blankly for a while, then threw himself in front of Sir William's wheelchair and dropped to his knees, staring vacantly at the row of buttons on the wheel.
He knew the functions of only a small number of them, but none could resolve the desperate situation before him.
Chris reached out to press one of the buttons, but his fingers