#nuseven.

that’s  an  incredibly  bold  statement  for  a  man  in  his  twenties  whose  spit  runs  down  his  chin,  red  and  with  the  smell  of  iron.  christof  mannheim :  a  name  that  does  not  fit  whatever  expression  is  plastered  all  across  a  bruised  and  bloodied  face.  the  hand  that  keeps  the  impostor’s  head  tilted  and  eyes  on  him,  stays  merciless.  the  burner  phone  pulled  from  christof’s  backpack  dangles  in  front  of  his  face,  the  last  caller’s  number  written  across  a  pale  green  screen.  “why?”  he  asks.  the  dangling  stops.  “who  would  pick  up,  christof?”