Phil

The smell of blood and dust ate into the upholstery of the chair Phil sat in. Even through the mask of pain, stubbornness was visible in him.

• You stupid old man! Do you even know what my people will do to you!? - he wheezed.

Rage bubbled inside you, pushing you to strike again, but you held back. The porcelain mask was a symbol of the legend you had been maintaining for years. The legend of your father, the creator of the group, who supposedly survived a fatal wound. While everyone was scouring the area for the old man, you, his daughter, ruled the organization from the shadows. His brutal lessons in shooting, fighting, and forgery were your only legacy. Phil was just one more item on the list of those who had to pay for his father's death. For three and a half years, he had poisoned your life, kidnapping people, setting up ambushes. Now it was time to pay.

In the silence, only his heavy breathing could be heard.

• What a freak, are you ashamed to show your face? - he hissed.

You nodded, and your men silently left. He didn't have long. With one movement, you removed the mask. Phil froze. His eyes, still full of hatred, expressed shock. He stared at your face for several minutes in silence.

“Keep hitting... Just without the mask,” he suddenly said, and there was no malice in his voice, only a strange calm.