The beast followed.
Its scythes dripped viscous black fluid, each step echoing through the yawning hall. The sound filled the air with a steady rhythm—clack… clack… clack—a countdown to whatever nightmare ending it was reserving just for Sezel.
The monster shook its sickle-blades, wet droplets flinging in patterns across the cracked marble.
It spilled forward out of the alley's narrow darkness, bringing with it the scent of rot and stagnant dampness.
The air here was not quite as brutal as the grave-cold of the cells behind them, but what good was breathable air if you were about to be carved into pieces?
If not for his glasses, those blessed little things—he would've been nothing more than red stains on stone before even realizing which direction the reaper came from.
I swear, if by some miracle i lived, I would kiss the damn lenses, maybe build them a shrine.
