Page 2 of Nocturne
“I just wanna understand…” I say with precision, my voice low and steady, while I spin the blade between my fingers like I’m toying with my own patience. "Why the fuck do assholes like you never fuckin' get it when someone says no?"
I lift my head slowly and stare at the man who got unlucky enough to cross my path — and Damon’s — on the worst fucking night possible. His arms are raised, tiedwith thick ropes to a rusty pipe in the ceiling.
The place is cold, merciless, a whisper of abandonment stuck to the skin. The rough concrete walls wear the same gray tone as my mood — colorless, lifeless. The low ceiling, with its exposed pipes, is an iron skeleton holding in the heavy silence, broken only by the cold rectangle of the recessed spotlight — a harsh white bulb that lights everything with cruel clarity. The air smells like mold and old oil, a mix of grime and pain, while the echo of my breath slips through the cracks, lost in this vast emptiness.
This is where I deal with Iron Requiem’s dirty work. More precisely: where I rip answers out of people.
Cruelly.
Slowly.
This is where I have my fun in the bloodiest way imaginable.
“You’re fucking crazy, man!!!” he screams, thrashing hard, making the pipe above him creak and shake. But no scream’s getting him out of here — and no one’s listening. “Let me the fuck go, you goddamn psycho!”
Sweat drips down his face, blond hair stuck to his wet forehead. His pupils are blown wide — adrenaline, pure fear, or maybe some drug he swallowed at that stinking-ass club. I don’t give a shit.
I grab an old rag and shove it in his mouth, silencing that noisy panic. I step closer, not even blinking, ‘cause his feet are tied up too, he can’t do shit.
Then I rip his dress shirt with an animalistic, savage move, like I’m about to have the sickest kind of fun.His eyes go wide in pure panic as he manages to spit the rag out of his mouth.
“I haven’t even started playing yet.” My voice is cold, calm, with a mocking edge that cuts like a blade.
He swallows hard, voice shaking. “Back off, you crazy motherfucker.”
I let out a light, sadistic laugh, easy and careless.
I’m really enjoying this.
There’s nothing better than fucking with those who deserve it. And if no one teaches assholes like this to behave, to not mess with who they shouldn’t…
I teach them. No mercy. No fear.
“Shit, there was mad people at the club and you had to come and fuck with him? You’re straight-up tripping”
I start sliding the blade over his body, not cutting for real, just to fuck around, to make him beg harder for his life. A twisted pleasure bubbles inside me.
“What the fuck are you talking about? You’re… you’re crazy… like, seriously, you want money? Is that it? Let me the fuck go! You… you’re fucked, man, you don’t know who you’re messing with… Like, I’m serious!”
Watching his panic is a private show.
But nothing that comes out of his mouth touches me.
It just makes my blood boil.
Just pisses me off even more.
“Man, just shut the fuck up”
I take a deep breath, a predatory smile curling my lips — a dark pleasure taking hold of me. He thrashes, desperate, feeling the inevitable closing in. Then, withdeadly calm, movements almost choreographed, I start sliding the blade across his skin. Each cut is a stroke from an obsessive painter, focused on the final masterpiece. He screams in pain, tries to speak, but words get lost, choked between hoarse cries and hot spit. Blood gushes out, bright scarlet red, staining my hands, dripping onto the cold floor.
At moments like this, the angel of death takes me, not as a demon, not as something satanic, but as a poetic, metaphorical presence. An essential part of me I need to keep breathing, to stay alive. My hands are precise, surgical, a merciless doctor at his operating table. The red that flows only feeds my urge to go deeper — but that’s not what I want. It’s a warning. A reminder.
As I continue, his voice fades away, replaced by a heavy silence. His head drops to the side, defeated by the shock of pain and fear. Fainting is the only refuge.
Then I step back, like someone pulling away to admire a masterpiece in the Louvre. The metallic scent of blood hangs thick in the air, sharp and raw, biting at my nostrils. On his chest, deep, jagged cuts bleed slowly, the edges slick and swollen, a cruel, permanent mark: HE’S MINE.
His skin is torn, rough beneath my fingers, warm and sticky with fresh blood. I can almost hear the faint drip, drip, drip echoing off the cold concrete floor, a relentless reminder of the violence here.
