C499 CHAPTER499 THE GREAT ART OF SELF-DECEPTION

Slivers of murky liquid trickled down the seams of his hands, a mixture of substances that wasn't quite blood, weaving together in a repulsive display. Sam Moreels couldn't stand the sight; he hastily stripped off his shoes and slipped into a fresh pair. The whole situation was revolting.

The precision of his recent kick—the strength, the speed—was unerringly accurate