AUTHOR
The hiss of the blowtorch died as Kenji turned the valve, the blue flame vanishing with a final, whispered pfft. He placed the tool back on the steel table with a soft, metallic click.
His eyes, two chips of arctic ice, scanned the array of instruments before settling on a smaller, more precise item: a skinning knife. The blade was short, curved, and wickedly sharp, designed for delicate, gruesome work.
He picked it up, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, examining the way the bare bulb gleamed along its razor edge.
"You know," Kenji began, his voice still deceptively calm, almost musing. "When you had her in that warehouse. When you called me... you said such... imaginative things." He looked up from the blade, his gaze locking onto Shuya's one good eye. "You said you were going to fuck her. That you'd make her scream your name."
