C279 The Real Man Doesn't Show His Face

"My hand!"

"My hand!"

In the decrepit sound shop, a man was howling in despair as his underlings, their middle fingers stained with black ink, hastily bandaged his wounds.

Sweat the size of soybeans covered his forehead as he writhed in agony, still yelling, "You're all dead meat!"

"You're all dead meat!"

"Don't you know who we are? We're the Black Fingers