The world will always torture the wicked with a sense of morality. No woman, no kid. He's just a hurtful killer. His heart is actually as tender and tender as that plant. He detonated the explosives in his hand, and Tony was counting the money. Just like La Traviata dies in tragic grief, the corrupt Parisian aristocracy is thriving. Without a conscience, there is no guilt. There is no pain without true love. He can be just a cold gun, a soul that doesn't die easily. But when Mathilde was like a ray of sunshine, it shone into his desolate and lonely heart. A pure love is awakened, and a duty without utility arises. Although it may not be correct to help people kill the enemy, the world is so chaotic.
The cello is pulled sadly, and the killer will eventually end his life in a shootout, but loving and being loved is all his punishment and reward.
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