The scarlet sunset that towered over the next defeat of the rebels intensified the taste on the lips, like strong wine: victory after victory of the Red Army pleased their unfavorable Leader, Tord Larsson, who, with a predatory gleam in his eyes, examined every corpse of an innocent inhabitant. Each drop of blood from the blow to the soldiers spread more and more until it completely turned into a dirty stain on the "canvas", as it is ironically customary to call it... "ground". The man sincerely enjoyed every bit of pain and regret on the faces of those executed - in his soul he had no passion for humanity as such.

The guy's composure was not something unusual—at most, detached from the concept of "person." The teeth were bared in an evil grin. It was as if the majestic figure wanted to strangle someone on the spot - just like that, out of eternal boredom. The days passed over and over again in a gray and monotonous manner, which, naturally, can bore everyone to the core. The sweet taste of fame and the intoxicating feeling of eminence over others spread through his veins, overwhelming Larsson and his sadistic ego to the fullest.

— Stop. — The words rang clearly in the ears of the soldiers, and they peacefully ended the battle, letting go of the guns to the ground. At the same moment, the Red Leader lowered his palm, silently looking at everyone with the word: "Not bad." The soldiers began to slowly disperse while the rebels cowardly ran away from their treacherous fate... What a pathetic sight. After a few moments, calmness was reflected on the face, but it was broken by someone else's and persistent knock on the door. There was a buzzing and parting irritation in his temples, but Larsson's tone was not distorted by this, after which he said indifferently:

— Come in. — Into the chambers, a man was abruptly knocked onto the floor. A mocking grin appeared on Tord's lips, his eyebrows raised in feigned surprise.

— Oh... What a surprise.