"What do I do-what do I do?!"
Arnold paced back and forth inside the room, muttering to himself.
The riot-proof iron door had already been lowered, and eight-millimeter-thick riot-proof iron plates were embedded in the walls, but none of that gave him any sense of security. This aging building had only one shared ventilation system. If the enemy was clever enough, he would end up smoked out of his hole like a rat.
"Useless Arnold, worthless Arnold! Just like Donegan!"
The ventriloquist's dummy on his hand opened his pitch-black mouth and let out a shrill, mocking laugh.
"Please, Scarface, I'm begging you, stop talking! I've already called Mr. Cobblepot. He'll definitely come save us." Arnold scratched his bald head, hunched over, and answered the dummy in an almost pleading tone.
If anyone had witnessed this scene-a ventriloquist actually chatting with his performance dummy-the eerie, unsettling atmosphere in the room would surely have made their skin crawl.
"Listen to yourself. 'I've already called Mr. Cobblepot-' Roar! Come on, Arnold, couldn't you hear how dismissive his reply was? Face reality. Nobody's coming to save us!
"We'll shoot our way out, just like before. You've got me! You'll be fine."
The dummy named Scarface waved the toy gun in his hand.
The toy gun was exquisitely made. Its barrel was pure metal, its joints fitted seamlessly, and its reddish-brown wooden stock bore a coat of gleaming paint. It was practically a miniature Thompson Submachine Gun. If someone claimed it could fire bullets, probably no one would doubt them.
"Then which way should we go?"
Listening through the door to the screams outside and the sporadic explosions and gunfire, Arnold trembled all over.
"Stupid Arnold, look above us. Isn't the ventilation duct a perfect choice? Listen to those footsteps outside. People are gathering here.