At the head of one street is a group of bounty hunters — trademarked by their sinister black apparel and deadly tools strapped to every body part. They stand out from the rest of the crowd for more reasons than their clothing. They're visibly distraught.
The first expression they've ever portrayed in front of an audience, and it's one of grief. The hunters' shoulders are slumped, gloved fists balled at their sides. Some of their mouths are twitching, lips quivering as they try, in great effort, to keep the poker faces they were trained to.
Rather than going into a blind rage from looking upon their leader's dead body, they seem... shattered.
Romanov was their kingpin while they were just numbers under his control. That's what I had thought at least. Looking at them now, standing frozen
