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And the room, filled with laughing criminals and clinking chains, did not realize they were about to become food.
The first knife moved.
Not fast. Not efficient. Not to kill.
It moved the way cruel people always moved when they believed they owned the moment — slow enough to enjoy it.
Shing…
The blade caught torchlight and threw it across the damp stone walls. The thug holding it grinned, leaning close to Sekhmet's face as if they were sharing a secret.
"You know," the thug murmured, voice thick with smug excitement, "I like quiet ones. Quiet ones break best."
Another man laughed behind him.
Ha… ha… ha…
A third clinked the chain again, just to hear it.
Clink… clink…
The torture rack waited like a hungry skeleton, metal arms spread, shackles open, ready for wrists and ankles. The bucket of dirty water sat at its base, surface trembling from footsteps like it feared what it might have to wash away.
