Quietly, he reached out and pried one of the daggers from Number 19's rigid grasp, the metal cool against his palm as he claimed it effortlessly.
With a blank, nonchalant face that revealed nothing of his inner storm, he then grasped the edge of Number 19's plain mask and lifted it away, exposing the features beneath.
"Any last words?" Greg echoed back mockingly, his voice devoid of warmth, turning the goblin's taunt against him with chilling precision.
"You will regret it if you—" Number 19 began, his words tumbling out in a desperate rasp, his eyes darting wildly in panic.
"I think it's better if you keep your words to yourself," Greg interrupted coldly, his tone slicing through the plea like a blade through silk.
In one swift, fluid motion, he brought the dagger down, severing Number 19's head cleanly from his shoulders, a spray of dark ichor arcing briefly in the air before the body slumped lifelessly.
