The knife tip pierced in by a millimeter.
Blood gushed out, streaming down along the eye socket.
Pedro screamed even louder.
The man ignored him.
He slowly moved the knife tip down, scraping across the cheek, across the chin, stopping at the neck.
"Next time," he said, "it won't be the eyes."
He put away the knife and turned to walk out.
Pedro slumped in the chair, trembling all over, his right eye already shut, face covered in blood.
The lights went out.
In the darkness, there were only his own heavy breaths and that face burned almost out of recognition.
Guayaquil, October 9th Avenue, No. 1374.
The tattoo parlor closed at ten in the evening.
Miguel Rojas was packing up when the door was pushed open.
Two people came in, both wearing black jackets, their faces hidden by masks, only their eyes visible.
"Closed." Miguel said.
The two people ignored him.
One of them took a photo out of his pocket, holding it in front of him.
