The tool he pulled out resembled a saw. But the edges were not sharp enough for precise cutting.
He just turned it once in his grip, checked the weight, and brought it down, not to stab, but to saw.
He cut in with a shallow press against the right thigh. No rush. Just back and forth, clean and brutal, through skin and muscle. Not deep enough to sever, not quick enough to finish. It was meant to drag.
I felt it. The vibration through tissue. The catch on fiber. The way the blade didn't slice so much as tear its way down.
I felt the pain. It was... uncomfortable.
I wasn't exactly worried. He hadn't come all this way on his Leviathan just to kill me. He wanted to break me, to figure out how I worked, use me.
It was only a matter of time before he realized that wasn't going to happen. I was already shaped. The real question was what he'd try next.
The saw provoked no spike in my breath. No scream. Just the warm rush of blood spilling down toward the table's edge.
