Janus glanced down at himself, ad-miring the way his gold body paint shined in the sun-light streaming from the balcony window. He pulled a knife from his loin-cloth’s belt and threw it at the target on the wall. The knife landed square in the middle of the Sword’s helmeted face.
Janus walked over to the picture. ‘You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this, Miller. Your city will be my city. Your wo-man, my woman. Your company, my com-pany. Your world, my world.”
He twisted the knife in the picture. “And there is nothing you can do about it.”
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