"Why the fuck am I overreacting?" Arawn muttered to himself, voice gravelly and low—more breath than sound.
But even that quiet murmur was enough.
The gaunt man—mid-swing, mid-torture—jerked as though struck by lightning. He twisted around sharply, the rusted hammer still clutched in his bony hand.
And behind him, barely illuminated by the flickering torchlight, knelt a man with a face mauled and bloodied beyond recognition.
He looked like a corpse risen from the grave, yet his amethyst eyes glowed with something far worse than death.
Arawn.
The torturer blinked, confused, as though the presence in front of him couldn't possibly be real.
"Who...?"
He tilted his head like a curious bird, uncertain whether this was a new prisoner or some deranged lunatic that had stumbled in by mistake.
But then, without a second thought, he adjusted his grip on the hammer and began to approach.
Each step closer made his skin crawl—but he ignored it.
He didn't stop.
