The man stared at the wrapped tool, then at Dylan, with hatred now tainted by a new kind of wariness. The stigma still throbbed faintly, a whitish glow beneath the bloodied skin, like a blind eye opening in the dark.
"You talk too much," he repeated, but the words rang hollow—an overused phrase. The twisted fascination had given way to cold frustration. "We'll see if your tongue's still that clever when the fever starts gnawing your bones."
He turned on his heels without another word. The metal door creaked, then slammed shut. The heavy bolt slid into place with the sound of a tomb sealing.
