The woman was tied up, the rope burning the skin of her wrists as if each turn bound not only her body, but also her breath and the last crumb of courage she had left. The room smelled of alcohol and leather; in the background, a discordant record player spat out a rock riff that seemed to laugh along with the slow fan on the ceiling.
The man stood calm as a sentence, sharpening the blade with slow, almost ritualistic movements—the sound of the metal sliding against the stone pierced the silence like a countdown.
— Please... — she stammered, her voice thin and brittle. — I swear I won't tell anyone if you let me go.
A short, joyless smile appeared on her face, just the curve of lips of someone who knows they control another's destiny. The words came out as if they had been thought many times before.
— You should be happy to have been chosen by the true god of this dark world.
Those words fell like ice on her skin. Her head spun; images from the night—laughter, glasses, promises made in low light—came and went, and soon dissolved into the harsh face of reality.
— Please... I have a daughter.
The man's reply was a whisper that cut deeper than any blade.
— No... you had a daughter, you whore...
He resumed his rhythm with the blade, as if sharpening it were an almost affectionate act. Then he began to speak slowly, choosing facts as if piling them up to justify what was to come.
— Did you know that one of the greatest presidents of the United States was the son of a lumberjack and was illiterate until he was twenty years old?
She shook her head, confused, not understanding the connection.
— Abraham Lincoln once said that if he had nine hours to chop down a tree, he would spend six of them sharpening his axe blade.
The man chuckled softly, humorlessly.
— Have mercy...
— Mercy? — he repeated, almost amused by the word. — That word isn't in our dictionary. There are many gods in this world who have mercy, but the one who truly owns it, including it in your own bible that you believe in, says so explicitly...
While she cried, tears streaking her face already marked by fear, he continued, unperturbed, transforming the scene into a distorted catechism of power and destiny.
— Feel honored, because your life will finally have some meaning.
— Please... don't do this...
The plea sounded like a loose coin tossed to the ground — useless.
— The more I hear you cry, the more excited I get... it's a shame I can't sleep with you and enjoy this moment a little.
That sentence left her in a kind of limbo. It was a threat and, at the same time, a confession: he saw her only as a piece on a larger chessboard. His words were unhurried; They were predictable. She tried to find rationality, any clue that would save her.
— Are you the one who's killing women out there?
The man's face changed expression, and a cold contempt took over his gaze.
— Killing? — he asked disdainfully. "Of course not...
She couldn't help but doubt, though her heart pounded, contradictory. He continued, as if explaining a perverse logic:
— I offer them to God. Whether they will live or not depends exclusively on Him...
A heavy silence descended. The sound of metal on the sharpener filled the air again. He inclined his face toward her, his eyes cold as glass. The blade gleamed in the dim light. Outside, the city continued its indifference—lights, cars, lives that continued to spin—while in that room time seemed to coil upon itself, and each second became a predictably calculated threat.
She breathed, felt the knot of the rope dig deeper, and somewhere between panic and acceptance, found a small spark of resistance: the promise made to her daughter. It wouldn't be long before his choice became his sentence. She knew that if she wanted to survive, she would have to find it—and fast—in the muffled sound of her tormentor's conversation, in a pause, a distraction, a fraction of a second when the blade wasn't speaking for him.