At first, it felt like a cold, pressure-less touch. When he heard the voice, he had raised his hands on instinct like some frightened animal.
It was only after he saw the flash of white, after he felt the cold slice, and after he saw his fingers falling from his hand—the white bone, pink flesh, veins and arteries visible—did the pain finally kick in.
"Gah!" Rhett screamed as his nerves shouted out to his brain, like fireworks were going off in his bloodstream.
He had died plenty of times before, had experienced suffering no person, innocent or guilty of any number of crimes should go through, but that didn't mean that he had developed a pain tolerance. A stab to the side still hurts. A stubbed toe still hurts.
So his severed fingers still hurt as the wound burned, velvet blood pulsing out of the wounds in sync with his heart beat.
"What are... No. Who are you?" A new voice said, not the smaller, younger voice Rhett heard earlier. This one was older. More feminine. And huskier.
