Shiva stares at his friend's restrained form with unreadable eyes. For one long second, he simply breathes—silent, motionless. Then, slowly, his gaze drifts to the judges.
Without a word, they step back. The room stills. The stage is his.
But Shiva doesn't start the torture.
He walks toward his friend. Quiet. Controlled. He kneels beside him, close enough to whisper.
Shiva (whispering, soft but heavy):
"I'll save you. I swear I will. But you'll have to endure this first... just a little longer."
His friend looks at him, tears swimming in his eyes. There's a flicker of hope. A belief. Maybe Shiva is still the person he once knew.
And then it begins.
Shiva picks up a simple vegetable peeler.
No theatrics. No special blades. Just a common, almost mundane tool.
He presses it gently to his friend's skin—and begins to peel.
The screams start almost immediately. Legs first. Then arms. Slowly. Meticulously. The raw sound of skin tearing and blood wetting the floor creates a symphony of horror. But Shiva's expression? Excited. Playful.
He suddenly stops. Steps back. Turns to the audience—the judges, the crowd, and even his friend.
Shiva (grinning):
"You guys wanna know something interesting?
You all think I apologized back then because I felt guilty. You think I was just a scared kid worried about my injured friend."
He chuckles. Loudly. Unapologetically.
Shiva:
"But here's the truth—
I apologized because I was scared. Not for him. For me. Someone saw me push him… and they called the cops. I thought they'd take me away. So I faked guilt. I put on the whole act. Turns out, I couldn't even be arrested. I was too young."
He looks back at his friend. His grin widens.
Shiva (mocking):
"You really believed I'd save you, didn't you?"
And then, he goes back to work.
He finishes the peeling. Then pours salt over the exposed flesh. His friend convulses. Base. Acid. Alcohol. Each chemical a new wave of agony. Each scream more broken than the last.
But inside Shiva's mind—it's a different story.
(Inner Monologue)
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Hate me. You should. You're free to hate me. Just… I'm sorry…"
He repeats it like a prayer. Like a punishment.
Every scream of his friend echoes as guilt in his chest—sharp, stabbing pain. Not metaphorical. Real. Hallucinations, or worse. He feels blades pierce his ribs, his lungs, his heart. The unseen things around him—phantoms only he can see—dig deeper with each second.
But still he smiles on the outside. A monster to the world. A wreck inside.
His friend begs at first. Then curses Shiva. Then curses the world.
Then silence.
Not peace. Not relief. Just madness.
The pain shatters him, until even screaming feels useless.
And then… he dies.
Still bleeding. Still peeled open. Still cursing with the last breath of a broken mind.
Shiva stands there, blood-covered, smiling.
But inside, he's bleeding more than anyone ever will know.
Silence.
The room that once echoed with screams now lay hollow, thick with the scent of blood, acid, and burnt flesh. The cold steel table still bore the mangled remains of Shiva's former friend. But Shiva… he stood amidst it all—unshaken, unfazed. Blissfully numb.
"Next?" he had said, as if nothing had happened.
Arthur's laughter tore through the tension like a blade. The judges, hardened criminals who'd climbed their way through blood and betrayal, did not flinch. No terror clouded their expressions. Only one showed a flicker of intrigue—just enough of a raised brow to register the unexpected boldness of a boy who had just skinned someone alive without a twitch of guilt.
A long pause settled.
Then, one of the judges stepped forward. His voice was slick, composed—like oil sliding across a blade.
"Impressive. Tell me, boy," he said with a slight smirk, "what position do you want to work in?"
It wasn't a question of protocol.
It was a test. A game of power. A predator assessing whether the cub was just a rabid beast or something far more dangerous.
But Shiva didn't answer.
He had drifted again.
The room blurred. Arthur, the judges—they faded like background noise. In their place rose them. Dozens of them. Human-like figures made entirely of darkness. Faceless, eyeless, formless—and yet, somehow, more real than anyone else in the room.
They didn't move. They didn't speak.
But he could feel them stabbing him.
Not physically—no wounds, no blood. But inside? Each second another blade plunged into his chest, then his back, then his gut, his ribs, his neck. Again and again and again. Unseen blades, real agony.
His legs nearly buckled.
But his mask? Perfect.
He chuckled under his breath and muttered, "Tch… weak."
Then, louder, addressing the room like a mad showman:
"Is this all? Is this your final test? Very well…"
The judges exchanged subtle glances, still silent—but now listening.
Shiva's smile widened, but his eyes—distant, bloodshot, and twitching—betrayed the storm inside.
"If this is all you can offer… then this is no fun."
He looked at Arthur, who had stopped laughing. There was something flickering behind Arthur's cold stare now—curiosity.
"Let me add a twist of my own to this game, Arthur."
Shiva's fingers curled into fists. The stabbing pain inside his body intensified—but so did his grin.
"Let's play another round. But this time… I choose the game."
Arthur leaned forward, interested.
"Aren't you curious, Arthur?" Shiva purred, voice soft but venomous. "What could I have in mind? What madness lives behind this little smile?"
He stepped forward, ignoring the invisible knives piercing his insides.
"Or are you scared of a kid?"
Arthur's grin returned, slow and razor-sharp. "I'm listening."
Shiva inhaled slowly, savoring the moment. The hallucinations swirled around him now, whispering, breathing, clawing. But he didn't flinch.
He stood tall, back straight, and smiled like a man who had just won.
Then with a maddening glint in his eye, he declared:
"The game is…"