I scream—raw, broken—as his nails carve deep into my torn flesh, like hooked blades searching for purpose.

He pauses, just briefly, then splits me wider with a sickening grace, his eyes locked on mine. That smile—too wide, too still—sits on his face like it doesn’t belong there.

He is sick.

So, so sick.

My hands claw at the splintered wooden floor, slipping in my own blood.

The only things escaping my throat are strangled sobs, hoarse cries dragged from the pit of agony.

I don’t fight him anymore.

He is a god, i am nothing but meat.

I feel it, and worse, see it—as his gaze drifts downward, toward the giant bleeding hole he’s carved into my belly.

His pupils swell, black eclipses devouring the whites of his eyes until only thin halos remain.

He’s mesmerized. Worshipful.

Like he’s peering into a cathedral made of blood and bone.

A predators gaze.

A God's hunger.

His fingers ghost across my skin—slow, reverent—before making their way underneath my skin.

He parts me with a surgeon’s care, as if each organ is something to worship.

His touch is almost tender.

But the pain - the pain is symphonic, and I am its screaming choir.