Dr. Abd's Dining Room.
"Come on, Doctor. Have a seat."
The Masked Man pointed the steak knife toward the head of the table. His voice was polite, like a host inviting a guest to dinner.
Dr. Abd sat down, his legs trembling. He looked at his wife and daughters, their mouths taped shut, their eyes wide with panic.
The Masked Man stood up. "I want to thank you, Doctor."
"Thank... thank you for what?" Abd stammered.
"For everything," the Masked Man said. He casually walked behind the eldest daughter and placed the cold blade against her neck. "Now, do exactly what I say."
"Okay! Okay!" Abd put his hands up. "I will do anything. Just don't hurt them."
"Hmm," the Masked Man tilted his head. "What if we go to your lab? We can talk there."
He pointed a gloved finger toward the floor. Toward the basement.
Abd froze. His heart stopped. How... how does he know?
"No!" Abd shouted, panic cracking his voice. "We talk here! Say whatever you want here!"
The Masked Man sighed. He pressed the knife harder. A thin line of blood appeared on the daughter's skin.
"Come on, Doctor. Do you really think you are in a position to negotiate?"
"Okay! Okay! Stop!" Abd stood up, defeating washing over him. "We will go."
Abd's wife looked at him, confused and terrified. Lab? What lab?
"Follow him," the Masked Man gestured with the knife.
They walked down the hallway to a locked door behind the pantry. Abd unlocked it with a shaking hand. They descended into the dark.
The Basement.
The door opened.
A smell hit them instantly—a thick, chemical stench mixed with the metallic odor of old, dried blood.
Abd turned on the lights.
His wife gasped. The daughters squeezed their eyes shut.
It wasn't a medical lab. It was a slaughterhouse.
In the center was a surgical bed equipped with heavy leather restraints. The walls were lined with saws, drills, and tools that no hospital would ever approve. High-definition cameras were pointed at the bed from every angle. A large monitor hung on the wall, displaying a chat room.
"Honey..." Mrs. Abd whispered, staring at the horror. "What is this? Were you hiding this from us all this time?"
Abd couldn't look at her. He stared at the floor, shame burning his face.
"I will tell you everything," Abd whispered.
The Masked Man walked to the corner and sat in the director's chair. He crossed his legs comfortably.
"Start the show, Doctor," the Masked Man mocked. "Your audience is waiting."
"What are you saying?" Abd pleaded. "I can't do this right now. I need... I need a subject to perform my art."
Even in his fear, Abd called it "art."
"A subject?" The Masked Man pointed the knife at Mrs. Abd and the girls. "Don't you consider your family subjects?"
He leaned forward. "That's right, Abd. Don't you think your art will be more beautiful if it's done on the ones you love?"
Abd hesitated. Then, slowly, terrifyingly, a shift happened. He picked up a syringe from the metal tray. He kept his head down, but a low, maniacal giggle escaped his throat.
He was considering it.
"Abd!" Mrs. Abd screamed, realizing the truth. "What are you doing?!"
"He isn't in his senses anymore, Mrs. Abd," the Masked Man said coldly. "He is going to dissect your daughter. He is going to feed the footage to his sick audience."
The Masked Man appeared behind Mrs. Abd. He whispered in her ear.
"You have two options. Watch your husband butcher your child... or you butcher him."
"No!" she screamed.
"If you refuse," the Masked Man said, his voice hard as iron, "I will leak your home address to his audience. Those monsters will come here. And they will do things to your daughters that even I cannot describe."
"Make your decision."
Abd raised the syringe. He walked toward his daughter. "It's for the art... just for the art..."
WHAM.
Mrs. Abd punched her husband in the face.
"Damn you, Abd!" she screamed, tears streaming down her face. "Get back to your senses!"
BEEP.
The large monitor on the wall flickered to life. A robotic voice filled the room.
"DISSECT. DISSECT. DISSECT."
The chat room was scrolling fast. Users were logging in.
"Mrs. Abd," the Masked Man warned. "The monsters are hungry. Feed them, or they will quench their thirst with your daughter."
Sobbing, Mrs. Abd dragged her dazed husband to the surgical bed. She shoved him down. She strapped the cuffs onto his wrists and ankles.
"So, the Artist is on the bed today?" the computer voice read a comment. "Gentlemen, enjoy the show."
"500 CREDITS. I want to see his bicep muscle exposed."
Mrs. Abd shook violently. She looked at her daughter, huddled in the corner. She looked at the shin-cutting tool on the tray. It was heavy in her hand.
"Keep in mind, the audience must be entertained," the Masked Man said.
Mrs. Abd grabbed the tool. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, then swung.
SQUELCH.
The blade bit into her husband's arm. It didn't cut like paper; it cut like meat. She felt the resistance of the skin popping open.
"AAAAAHHHHHHH!" Abd's scream echoed off the concrete walls. "Honey! What are you doing?! Stop!"
She didn't stop. She couldn't stop. With trembling fingers, she grabbed the flap of skin and pulled. It made a wet, sticky sound as it separated from the flesh.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she sobbed, peeling him like a fruit. The red, twitching muscle underneath was exposed to the cold air.
"1500 CREDITS. Show me his ribs. Open him like a book."
Mrs. Abd grabbed a scalpel. She pressed it against his chest. Her hands were slippery with his blood now.
She cut a long line down. Abd thrashed against the restraints, his eyes bulging.
"Honey, please!" Abd begged, blood bubbling from his mouth. "Why are you doing this?!"
Mrs. Abd looked at him. Her eyes were dead, hollowed out by the horror of what she had become.
"You tried to dissect our daughter," she said in a calm, broken voice. "And now you ask for mercy?"
Abd lifted his head. He looked at the Masked Man in the corner.
The Masked Man reached up. He pulled off the black mask.
Abd's eyes went wide.
"Z...?" he wheezed. "Zerath!"
Flashback: EIGHT Months Ago.
Mr. Mughel stood in the living room, holding a teenage Z by the collar.
"If he can't bear physical pain, then let Dr. Abd do his job," Mr. Mughel said coldly.
"No, please!" Mrs. Mughel cried. "Have mercy on him! He is our son!"
She knew what Dr. Abd was. Everyone in the elite circle knew. He was a butcher.
"I am sorry," Mr. Mughel said.
He dragged Z to Abd's house.
"He is yours to handle now, Doctor," Mr. Mughel said, shoving the boy inside. "Do whatever you want. I just want this failure to be toughened up."
Seven days.
For seven days, Abd didn't just hurt Z. He carefully, methodically unmade him.
It wasn't just surgery. It was artistry in the cruelest form.
Abd pressed red-hot irons into Z's chest until the skin bubbled and hissed, filling the small room with the sweet, sickening scent of roast pork—human flesh. He peeled back fingernails with pliers, slowly, savoring the wet tearing sound of the nail bed separating from the finger.
He used a bone saw on Z's shin, not to cut through, but to graze the periosteum—the most sensitive layer of the bone. The high-pitched whine of the drill vibrated through Z's entire skeleton, turning his world into white-hot static. He carved Z's shin bones while the boy was conscious, the dust of the bone filling the air.
Z screamed until his throat bled. He lay in a pool of his own blood, urine, and sweat, stripped of every shred of dignity.
But something terrified the Doctor.
"Why isn't my torture working on him?" Abd thought, sweat dripping down his face as he stared at the boy. "One moment he is acting innocent, begging for mercy. Then he blacks out and wakes up a completely different person. Then he blacks out again and becomes someone else entirely."
Abd looked at the mess on the table. "What exactly is wrong with him? I have literally dissected his whole body. The amount of blood in him is barely enough to keep him alive, yet his wounds heal so unhumanly fast. What is going on?"
A terrifying thought took root in the doctor's mind. "It seems like I am the victim here. I am the one getting slaughtered."
"Come on, Abd! Kill me!" Z screamed, his voice shifting into a crazy, high-pitched laughter. "Yes! You can do it!"
Abd snapped. Crazed with frustration and fear, he grabbed a knife and stabbed Z in the chest.
Z went quiet. His head lolled back.
"Will you ask for it?" Abd whispered, leaning back, trembling.
He looked at the stairs. "There is something inside of me asking me to leave him, to let him go. But what if he returns?"
Abd made his choice. He unlocked the restraints. He opened the basement door.
"I am leaving the doors open," Abd said, casting a glance at Z's stabbed body. "Prove your claims and come for me. I am waiting for you."
Reality.
The Masked Man stood up. He slid the black mask back over his face, hiding his identity from the cameras. He walked toward the lens.
"2000 CREDITS. Disable his vocal cords. I hate his screaming."
Mrs. Abd grabbed a thin blade. She jammed it into Abd's throat.
Gurgle.
The screaming stopped instantly. Only wet, choking sounds remained, like a drain struggling to swallow water.
"40,000 CREDITS. THE RAT TORTURE."
The Masked Man walked to a shelf. He picked up a metal cage containing a large, frantic sewer rat. He picked up a steel bucket.
He walked to Abd. He placed the rat on Abd's exposed abdomen. The rat's claws scratched against Abd's skin. He covered it with the steel bucket.
Narrator's Note: A rat's instinct is to flee from heat. When trapped against skin with a heat source above it, the rat has only one way to escape: down. It will dig through skin, muscle, and intestines to get away from the fire.
The Masked Man flicked a lighter. He began to heat the bottom of the bucket.
Squeak! Squeak!
Inside the bucket, the rat panicked. It felt the searing heat. It bit down.
Abd arched his back, his spine threatening to snap from the tension. He felt the rat's claws scrabble frantically against his taut skin, slipping on sweat before finding purchase. Then, the teeth. It wasn't a clean cut. It was a gnawing, ragged tearing. He felt the skin pop. He felt the warm, wet snout push into the hole, followed by the writhing, furred body. The rat was literally swimming inside him, its paws hooking into his intestines, shredding them to make a tunnel away from the heat. Abd could feel the animal's heartbeat hammering against his own liver.
"1000 CREDITS. Centipede."
The Masked Man picked up a jar. He dropped a long, red centipede into Abd's ear.
It crawled inside. To Abd, the sound was louder than a freight train—the dry, chitinous skritch-skritch-skritch of a hundred tiny legs on his tympanic membrane. Then, the piercing pain. The centipede bit through the eardrum. Abd felt a pop, followed by a rush of fluid, and then the sensation of the creature wriggling deeper, into the wet, dark canal leading to his brain. It felt like a jagged rusty nail being slowly hammered into his skull, millimetre by millimetre.
"9000 CREDITS. Break the ribcage."
Mrs. Abd picked up a hammer. Her hands were slick with blood and sweat. She looked at her husband's pleading eyes, then at her daughter's terrified face.
CRACK.
She brought the hammer down on her husband's chest. The sound wasn't a snap; it was a wet explosion of bone.
CRACK.
The ribs gave way, snapping inward like dry twigs, puncturing what was left of his lungs.
"2000 CREDITS. Use your hands. Rip the bicep muscles out."
Mrs. Abd grabbed the exposed red muscle of her husband's arm. It was warm. It was slippery. Her hands slipped on the blood. She dug her fingers in deeper, finding a grip on the raw meat.
She pulled.
The sound was atrocious—like a wet towel being torn in half. Abd's eyes bulged so far out they looked ready to burst. He watched his own bicep, the muscle he used to flex in the mirror, peel away from the humerus bone like string cheese, snapping strands of connective tissue one by one.
"20,000 CREDITS. PULL THE HEART OUT."
Mrs. Abd was shaking uncontrollably. But she had to finish it. She reached into the open chest cavity. She wrapped her fingers around the slippery, beating muscle. She could feel his life thumping against her palm.
She pulled.
RIP.
She held the heart in her hands. It beat once. Twice. Then stopped.
The Masked Man walked to the camera. He stared into the lens.
"Excellent show, Artist," the computer voice said. "The Organization is satisfied."
The Masked Man reached out and cut the stream. The monitor went black.
He turned to Mrs. Abd, who was huddled on the floor with her daughters, covered in her husband's blood, rocking back and forth in trauma.
"Forget what you saw today," The Masked Man said calmly. "If you ever dare to speak about me... you and your daughters will be on that bed next."
He walked out, leaving the door open, just as Abd had done for him.
Z's House. Just Before Dawn.
Hirey was waiting in the chair beside the empty bed. She sat confidently, her eyes fixed on the door.
The handle turned.
Z walked in. He looked exhausted. His clothes were damp from the rain.
"I am sorry, Z," Hirey said. Her voice was steady, calm, and oddly confident.
Z stopped. He looked at her.
The hollow darkness in his eyes flickered. He took a step toward her, but his body had reached its limit. The "Master" retreated into the shadows of his mind, and the "Innocent" surged forward, only to find a failing vessel.
Z's eyes rolled back.
Thump.
He collapsed on the floor, unconscious.
Hirey stood up slowly. She looked down at him. The Angel was back. But the blood on his hands... that belonged to the Devil.
She brushed a lock of damp hair from his forehead, her hand lingering on his cold skin.
A memory, sharp and jagged as broken glass, cut through her mind. The day the light died in those eyes. The day she chose her future over his life.
"I created this," she whispered to the empty room. "I opened the gate to Hell."