His sinful Obsession

Monster

The dim light bulb swayed overhead, casting jagged shadows that danced across the cracked concrete floor. The air was thick—stale with sweat, blood, and the lingering stench of fear. In the center of the room, Sergei sat slumped in a wooden chair, wrists and ankles bound so tight the ropes had bitten deep, carving raw, angry welts into his flesh. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling, shudders wracking through him with every pulse of agony. Blood trickled from his split lip, mingling with the sweat that dripped from his brow.

Rafael stood before him, a dark silhouette against the flickering light, the very embodiment of controlled violence. He wasn't rushed. He wasn't angry—yet. He was savoring this, the way a predator savors the final, gasping moments of its prey. In his gloved hand, a thin, gleaming blade glinted under the yellow light, a weapon designed for precision, for exquisite pain rather than mercy.

He crouched, leveling his gaze with Sergei's bloodshot eyes. His voice was a whisper, but it carried the weight of a god passing judgment.
"You know why you're here, Sergei."
A slow smile curled Rafael's lips, devoid of warmth, devoid of humanity. He tilted his head, watching the panic bloom in Sergei's gaze, feeding off it, drinking it in.
"How can I bid you goodbye," he murmured, voice dipping lower, darker, like a devil whispering in the ear of the damned, "without giving you the chance to show me just how grateful you are?"
The blade traced the air between them before pressing—gently, almost tenderly—beneath Sergei's jaw.
"Grateful,"
Rafael repeated, his breath hot against Sergei's cheek.
"That I am still merciful... while I still choose to be."

A moment of stillness.
A heartbeat.
Then, the blade bit into flesh.

The blade whispered free from its sheath, a sliver of death glinting under the dim, swaying light. Rafael twirled it between his fingers, slow, deliberate, savoring the weight of it, the promise it carried. The air in the room was thick—humid with sweat, metallic with blood. A dozen figures stood around them, silent specters watching, but none would step forward. None would stop what was coming.

Sergei's chest heaved. His eyes darted wildly, desperate, seeking, landing on Nicolas. A flicker of hope—foolish, fleeting—passed through him. He had shared so many moments with Nicolas, trusted him, confided in him. Surely, Nicolas wouldn't let it end like this.

But Nicolas didn't move.

Sergei's lips trembled, his breath hitched, but words failed him. What could he say? 

No plea, no excuse, no whispered prayer would change his fate now. 

A small, pathetic whimper was all he could manage.

And Rafael grinned.

In one seamless motion, like an artist laying the first stroke on a masterpiece, Rafael drove the blade into Sergei's side. The steel kissed flesh, slipped between ribs with a wet, sickening crunch. Sergei jerked violently, a raw, strangled gasp tearing from his throat. Pain exploded through him. His body convulsed, his muscles spasming against the ropes that held him.

But Rafael wasn't done.

He twisted the blade. A fresh wave of agony surged through Sergei's body, a gurgled scream ripping from his throat. Blood bubbled past his lips, dribbling down his chin. The scent of iron thickened the air, suffocating, inescapable. His pulse thudded weakly, his body weakening, but Rafael's grip was firm—unyielding.
Sergei's glassy, terror-filled eyes roamed the room, seeking mercy where none existed. They landed back on Rafael—the devil, the executioner, the one who had no god to fear and no soul to wound.
Rafael tilted his head, amusement flickering in his dark, pitiless eyes. He withdrew the blade with slow, deliberate cruelty, savoring the wet slide of steel leaving flesh.
He leaned in, his voice a mockery of softness.
"Oh, don't worry."
His tone was light, teasing, laced with venom.
"We're going to take our time with this. I want you to feel every second of what's coming—just like you planned every second of my destruction with that pathetic f**er."*
Rafael's lips curled, his grip tightening on the hilt of the blade, still dripping warm, crimson life onto the cold concrete.