"Still nothing?" he said, tone flat. "You know, there comes a point where this stops being amusing. And just becomes… pointless."
—-
Dylan didn't answer. Just the clinking of chains, a nervous twitch in his left leg. He no longer had the strength to lift his head, let alone challenge the man with a stare. His Stigma pulsed faintly, like a sick heart.
The executioner sighed. He leaned in, grabbed Dylan's jaw, and lifted it with a leather-gloved finger. The Awakened's eyelids fluttered slowly, as if even that had become an ordeal.
"Look at me."
But there was no response.
He lightly tapped his cheek. It was no slap. Not even a blow—just a cold summons to consciousness.
"You're going to die of spiritual exhaustion if you keep this up. That's stupid, isn't it? No grand finale. No spectacular escape. Just… drained."
