The basement was damp, the walls slick with moisture, and the iron chair gleamed faintly in the dim light. Jay sat bound, his wrists and ankles chained tightly, the links biting into his flesh with every slight movement. The chair wasn't made for comfort. It was cold, unforgiving, and unyielding—just like me.
Blood dripped lazily from his forehead, tracing a crimson path down his face before pooling at the edge of his collarbone. His breathing was labored, each gasp rasping like sandpaper against the silence. He was alive, for now, and that was all I needed.
"Hold still," I murmured softly, running a gloved finger along his cheek. His skin was clammy, pale, and trembling beneath my touch. "You don't want me to slip, do you?"
The knife in my other hand was sharp—so sharp that it had no trouble gliding through skin. Earlier, I'd tested it on his forearm, carving shallow lines, watching as the blood welled up in perfect little beads before cascading down. Beautiful.
