Calvin tilted his head, almost curious, as he lowered the knife.

The moment the tip kissed John’s skin, the room seemed to hold its breath.

Then he dragged it.

Not fast, not merciful but slowly and painfully.

The blade parted flesh with a sickening ease, a thin line blooming red before spilling open, the sound of a wet, tearing whisper far louder than it should have been.

John’s body convulsed, a strangled scream clawing its way out of his throat, raw and broken.

Calvin didn’t stop.

He watched.

Listened.

Savoring every second.

“Sir… sir… please… mercy…”

“Just endure it… or would you rather lie in a grave?”

A guttural scream...