The room had become a chamber of horrors. The once ordinary apartment—cheap wallpaper, crooked lamps, a sagging couch in the corner—was now drenched in crimson. Blood painted the floorboards, splattered the walls in long arcs, and pooled beneath the chairs where Slimy and Macho sat tied back-to-back. Their breathing came in ragged, uneven gasps, their bodies convulsing against restraints that had already cut into their wrists and ankles from their struggles.
Marcus stood before them, humming softly as if he were a painter evaluating his work. His sleeves were rolled up, his hands dripping with gore, his grin somehow wider than when he had started. He flexed his blood-slicked fingers, admiring the way the red clung to his skin, then casually rubbed them on the wall like an artist cleaning brushes.
