The lights in the auditorium suddenly blazed on. Everyone who had grown accustomed to the darkness covered their eyes and rubbed them hard.
For some reason, the dense array of spotlights above the stage seemed to be shining directly into people's faces. The sudden shift in brightness was not enough to blind anyone, but streaming tears were unavoidable.
The lively pre-order rush was interrupted at once. Even those Clone Supermen, considered so high-end and sophisticated, still had naked eyes and could not avoid being dazed for a short time.
For Kryptonian clones, the dizziness caused by their pupils adjusting was fleeting. They might adapt in less than a second, but that was more than enough time for Strangle.
When the auditorium lights came on, people discovered in horror that the fat board member who had been speaking so eloquently moments ago had become a headless corpse, now collapsed in the arms of the "Clone Superman" beside him.
Notably, the burly man in the black suit held the corpse with both hands. A ring of wet red stains surrounded his mouth, and a strand of something white—probably brain matter—trembled precariously from the corner of his lips.
The crowd fell silent for a moment. After most people had rubbed their eyes and looked toward the stage again, their minds seemed to short-circuit at the sight, leaving them with no idea how to react.
Blood was still spurting from the headless corpse's chest cavity like a fountain, spraying the Superman's head and face. Yet he did not care in the slightest, merely turning his head as if searching the crowd for his next target.
He was actually looking for the killer, but he was too stupid. In everyone's eyes now, he was the killer.
"Monster!"
Someone snapped out of it and let out