Swoosh.
Yuri's shot took the bellboy in his throat, and he fell down gurgling, hands flying to his neck as he collapsed, choking on his own life fluid.
Swoosh! Swoosh!
Ilya shot another round; another unfortunate hotel staff staggered backward into a decorative pillar and glide down, leaving a red smear on the white stone.
And Ilya moved again. Not running. But flowing.
Faster than any normal wolf should move without shifting, his body resembled a blur of black, contrary to the ornate lobby.
In a couple of minutes, men and women dressed as staff in the hotel were scattered on the ground, some seemed to be fatally injured, struggling to live, while others were offed. Blood was even pooled in the beige-colored marble floor. And Ilya…
He was standing there in the centre of the carnage. His dark clothes were still pristine except for two small tears where bullets had grazed him.
