"I have tears from presidents, kings and queens, even servants. From them, I have power. Not the power of reigning over nations, but the power of knowing one's secrets."
➿
Mark, a renowned serial killer, murders celebrities of all kinds.
He makes i...
Here's how I imagine Prada! Hope you enjoy today's chapter <3
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When Mark returned to the laboratory for the second time that day, he knew something was different. He could feel it.
Power, excitement, and nerves charged the air, making it thick and suffocating. As he walked behind Cibil, further and further into the laboratory, he could sense that familiar bloodlust in the room. It reminded him of killing, but now he was the prey.
Cibil sat at one of the lab tables, separating herself from the scene yet vaguely listening, while Mark stood at the edge of the testing room stairs. Antinstine stood next to the metal table with a shit-eating grin, and Mark glared at him, clenching his fists.
"Well... he's still got his spirit," said a voice, and Mark glanced up, searching for the source.
In a graceful motion, Prada stepped out of the shadows. His horns appeared first, then the rest of his body; he had that signature, sarcastic smile on his face, his yellow eyes glinting.
Mark stilled, his sudden appearance charging the air. The power in the room was unsettling.
"What's he doing here?" Viper said, wearily eyeing him. Prada walked down the steps with utmost elegance, posture perfect and movements calculated.
"You'll find out," said Antinstine, smirking over at Prada. He didn't smile back—he simply nodded and stood next to Antinstine, gazing softly at Mark.
Syl and Ox wheeled a cart down the stairs and set it next to the metal table. They stared at Antinstine and Prada expectedly, their hands folded in front of them.
Antinstine made a motion with his hand, and Prada walked forward, approaching Mark. He had such a determination in his step that it scared him. It was like he was going to kill him right then and there.
Mark took a step back, eyeing Prada.
"What are y—"
Prada walked straight up to Mark, chest bumping into his. Mark went to push him away, but Prada circled around him.
He pushed him from behind. Hard.
Mark stumbled forward, foot catching on the steps.
He shouted, but before he could fall down, his body froze mid-fall.
Invisible strings suspended him like a puppet, lifting at his joints. Mark's body tingled painfully, and it felt like his blood threatened to pierce out of his skin.
His leg jerked forward against his will, and his arms snapped into his sides. His body was walking down the steps, but he wasn't the one controlling them.
His face went pale.
Prada was bending his blood.
"Make him dance for me," sang Antinstine, eyes gleaming with a manic delight. He twirled his finger in the air, and Prada mimicked the action, making Mark do a spin in the middle of the room. The markings on his face were glowing bright red, and his hands were splayed open and tight like the crossbar of a puppet.
