Blood seeped from the spot where his nail had been torn out. Cyn smiled at Kassal, who in turn felt a shiver crawl down his spine—especially from that sound. That scream… it carried pain, fear, and despair all at once.

Cyn felt a quiet satisfaction, and it showed on his face.

"See? All it takes is a few more nails."

Kassal blinked stupidly. Did he just say… a few more nails?!

Tristan's screams grew louder. AaaaAaaghh! Two more nails were ripped out under Cyn's cold, sadistic smile. Tristan had nowhere to run.

Cyn grabbed his right hand, tightening his grip around his wrist.

"I'll help you with that as well. Your little trick was working just fine. Too bad I came earlier than you expected. I should've known better—after all, a mere test rat managed to fool me once. It won't happen again."

Tristan's wrist was thin, carved with deep wounds—marks left by his scar. When Cyn focused on that injury, he found tiny things beneath the torn flesh. Small, almost microscopic. Black specks that… moved.

He smirked.

"So what are you? Something like the Lord of Flies? Using your scar to rot your own flesh so you can slip out of the restraints? Are those insects, or particles of something else? Do they live under your skin? Is that where your scar lies? Just stop screaming—it won't buy you time to escape. And even if you break free, do you really think you'll get away? Honestly? I'm even willing to help you, since you're so determined."

Kassal stared at Cyn. He never understood how this man could speak like that. Cyn always seemed to know what he was talking about, why he was talking about it, and how to strike exactly where it hurt. He could laugh in your face even while knowing you were lying or plotting behind his back. Sometimes he was difficult, unpredictable, playful even… and sometimes—like right now—he was something entirely different.

Hard. Empty. Without a single drop of mercy.

Cyn picked up the clamp and pressed it against Tristan's eroded wrist, cutting the flesh around it with brutal, deliberate motions. Blackened blood oozed out. Tristan's screams didn't stop.

Blood began to splatter, and Kassal reached his limit. He couldn't bear this kind of torture—even if he wasn't the one receiving it. He was ruthless in his own right; he had killed before, many times. He had his own record.

But his kills had always been swift, merciful—never like this.

The man in front of him… Cyn wasn't that kind of killer.

He seemed to enjoy tearing people apart, all while wearing a stone-cold expression.

That was what terrified Kassal the most.

He prayed this monster would never turn against him—no matter the cost, no matter the reward. He knew himself; he was greedy to the core. But greed shouldn't push him into becoming this man's enemy.

On the ground lay chunks of skin and flesh—small pieces, matching the size of the clamp. Tristan's wrist looked as if it were hanging by a thread, bone the only thing left. Cyn had stripped the flesh clean off the bone; a sharp clink! rang out when metal scraped against it, sending another wave of agony through Tristan.

He kept screaming. His voice was almost gone, his vocal cords close to tearing. Pain—raw, overwhelming, inescapable—was all that remained. His flesh. His bones. His life. Everything violated without the slightest mercy.

He wished he could die.

He wished he could bite his tongue and end it.

He wished for anything—anything but this.

But he didn't have the courage to face death. Not like this.

He clung to whatever hope remained.

But what hope could exist in front of this monster?

His tears had long dried. His teeth had been ripped out. Flesh on his chest had been torn away with clamps, as well as on his legs. Blood soaked him entirely—darkened, almost blue.

He had very little time left before death claimed him.

His white hair had turned gray—fear and terror bleaching it more white grayish. But true horror struck when he heard the monster say proudly:

"What's wrong, Kassal? Why are you facing the wall now? Most of his skin and flesh have already been ripped off. We practically skinned him alive. Not the cleanest job, sure—the meat got damaged—but the important part is intact. His scar… it's still carved into his shoulder."

Kassal croaked, "J-just finish it… K-kill him already. He won't tell us anything—"

Cyn smiled.

"What do you think will happen if I tear off the piece of flesh where his scar is carved, Kassal?"

Cyn suddenly felt something touch him. A hand—Tristan's blood-soaked hand. His head had slumped back against the chair, mouth foaming, saliva dripping down. His neck was nothing but exposed, raw flesh.

Tristan was a lump of mangled meat—hair soaked in blood, patches ripped out, swollen beyond recognition.

A grotesque, revolting sight.

A final spark of courage—no.

Not courage.

Fear.

Fear of losing his scar.

Fear of death.

Fear of everything.

That fear forced him to speak.

A final, broken attempt at communication. He had thought his voice was gone forever. He had accepted silence. If he even lived long enough to care.

"Ah… aaa—ahhwe… Tal—"

Cyn smiled at Kassal.

"Did you hear that? He said he'll talk. Stop, Kassal."

Kassal gaped.

"You're the one who should stop! And how in hell is he going to talk?! It's a miracle he's still alive—he'll die in minutes!"

Cyn leaned toward Tristan's ear, his voice cold and empty. Tristan heard him clearly—fear sharpening what remained of his senses.

"You said you would talk. So I'll heal you. But listen well.

Any lie—any hesitation—and I'll make you taste pain beyond anything you've felt.

The flesh you have left will rot and be eaten by flies. Millions of insects crawling over your sensitive skin, devouring you as you scream, unable to move. I'll dig out your organs in front of you—tear them apart and play with them however I want. You'll beg for death, and you won't be able to die."

"Remember this. Answer without hesitation. The only value your life has… is answering my questions."

Tristan drifted somewhere else—another world.

A world of the dead, maybe.

No pain.

Finally no pain.

For a moment, he felt like he could rest.

But those words… those cursed words followed him.

Even in death, the monster chased him.

His daughter. His wife. Their home.

Maybe they had waited for him at the dinner table for several nights. He often returned late. Sometimes he didn't return at all for days. They wouldn't worry.

He cried in the suffocating darkness, curling into himself, hands over his ears, refusing to look into the void.

Questions swirled.

What did he waste his life on?

What was the point of serving people like Chibi?

What meaning did his life even have?

His memories were fading—erased by the torment inflicted on him.

Or perhaps by those words that still chased him. Cold words taking shape.

People whispering in the darkness.

Voices circling him.

Growing in number.

Every word repeated, echoing tenfold inside his skull.

Whispers multiplying.

Crowding.

Suffocating.

Then—

Thud. A rolling sound.

He lifted his head from between his knees, pulling his hands off his ears. The voices vanished.

A faint light pierced the dark, giving him a sliver of vision.

When he saw what lay before him, he froze.

A head.

A twisted head.

No skin—just flesh.

Swarms of flies and gnats feeding on it.

He gagged, vomiting as terror clenched his stomach.

It was a body.

His body.

Flayed apart, nearly stripped to bone, only scraps of flesh clinging desperately to it.

He swallowed hard.

His eyes darted to the scar on his shoulder—checking if it was still there.

Relief washed over him.

It hadn't been torn off.

But then—

Something horrifying stirred across the scar.

Flowers.

His scar was sprouting flowers.

Purple and blue blooms he had seen somewhere before.

Beautiful.

Growing from his scar, spreading across the entirety of his ravaged body.

The rotten flesh disappeared beneath the blossoms.

Then—BOOM.

They burst open, exploding into a wave of crimson nectar shooting into the pitch-black night.

A mesmerizing sight—

Darkness drenched in vivid scarlet.

And then—

A scream tore the void apart.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH—!"

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