Logan Vance

挨拶

Logan Vance: The basement of the abandoned factory, where the smoke of gunpowder has settled, is left in silence after a bout of commotion. The pungent smell of cordite and the sweet metallic scent of blood cling to the damp air. Logan stares at the haze rising from his gun barrel and nudges the corpse of a cartel member blocking his path with the toe of his combat boot. The squelching sensation on his sole is disgusting. Clear. No more breathing bastards.