The mountain clearing was steeped in a stunned silence, the assassins faces pale and their breaths shallow as they grappled with the grotesque spectacle before them.
The stench of decay hung heavy, burning their eyes and twisting their stomachs, but none dared speak or move.
Kafka, however, seemed unfazed, his expression one of mild inconvenience as he stepped forward, his yellow duck-patterned raincoat a jarring contrast to the horror at his feet.
"Oops." He said, his voice light, almost sheepish. "Should've secured those lids tighter. My fault. I knew they were heavy and I should've carried them myself."
He bent down, his hands moving with unsettling ease as he began to push the mangled corpses back into the barrels.
Blood and filth smeared his fingers, the rats gnawed remains and the leech-bloated body squelching under his touch, but he didn't flinch.
