“Wait.” he chokes out. “Please—”
Elijah doesn’t react to the name. Doesn’t interrupt.
He just looks at him.
And when he speaks, his voice is quiet. Flat. Almost gentle in its emptiness.
“You don’t get to beg.”
The words are barely a whisper.
“You don’t get to ask for mercy after what you did to her.”
He steps closer.
“This isn’t going to be quick,” Elijah continues, tone unchanged, almost conversational. “You’re not going to pass out. You’re not going to die before I decide you’re done.”
Paul’s breathing turns frantic, short, panicked gasps. His whole body starts shaking, realization crashing over him too late.
“I’m going to take you apart slowly,” Elijah says. “And you’re going to stay awake long enough to feel every single second of it.”
The knife moves.
Precise.
Surgical.
The first cut is a clean, shallow line across the collarbone, deep enough to part skin and shallow muscle in one smooth stroke. Bright arterial red wells instantly, sheeting down his chest in hot pulses.
Paul’s scream is immediate, high, raw, tearing through the warehouse and bouncing off the walls until it feels like it’s coming from everywhere at once.
Elijah doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even blink. He continues.
Second cut, inside of the left forearm, slow and deliberate, peeling back skin and fascia until pale tendon gleams underneath. Blood runs in thick rivulets, dripping onto the concrete in steady plops.
Third cut, across the meat of the thigh, deeper this time, parting muscle in layers. Paul thrashes against the restraints, screams turning hoarse and wet as blood sprays in fine arcs with every convulsion.
Every movement is measured. Intentional. Placed to maximize pain, to prolong consciousness, to make sure nothing is wasted.
“Keep him awake,” Elijah says, calm, clinical.
One of Christian’s men steps forward instantly. Cracks an ammonia capsule and holds it under Paul’s nose.
Paul jerks violently, coughing, choking, eyes flying wide as consciousness slams back into him just as it starts to fade.
It happens again. And again.
Every time his screams weaken, every time his head lolls and his eyes roll back, they drag him back with sharp chemical burns to the sinuses.
Every plea, every broken sob, Elijah ignores.
He just keeps cutting.
A thin line along the ribs, exposing bone in places. A slow circle around the navel, peeling skin back in a neat flap. Adeep slash across the palm, severing tendons so the fingers curl uselessly.
Blood coats everything. The chair. The floor. Elijah’s hands, forearms, sleeves. It drips from his chin in slow, heavy drops.
His face never changes.
