This identity does not claim points.
Follows The Status Of Victim.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Move.
Kick the door in; throw a knife straight into an eyeball, cut throat, duck.
Spray of bullets.
The anticipation has built up to the point that my brain is saturated with dopamine, such sweetness, and then – whoosh! – a shot of adrenaline straight into the bloodstream. Grab a body, twist neck, spin and let the fresh corpse catch bullets for me. Smells like blood, like gunpowder.
Stab a guy from behind, upward angle, through the heart. Grin.
I’m flying high.
Yes, I get off on it.
No, it doesn’t make me sick. It just makes me human.
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