Chapter 1912 Cannot Waste A Thing

• Under the reeking haze of gun-smoke, every last woman clamped her mouth shut. They crouched lower, trembling, as Griffith lowered his rifle and paced the rows like a bored executioner.
• "I'll say this once more," he snarled, voice echoing off the high cornices. "I don't want to hear anyone claim she's 'only serving drinks.' Keep testing me and you'll decorate this floor the way those corpses just did."
• He jabbed the muzzle toward the lifeless bodies cooling in their own blood, the implication as clear as the stench.