Bloodied shirt. Blood trickling down from the wounds on her ghostly white skin. Her nails have been ripped out. She's too numb to feel the pain. Her conscious drifts to nothing as she feels like she's falling into a deep slumber.
The man grabs her hair soaked with sweat and pulls hard. When he hears her whimper like a little bruised animal, he grins at her. He presses the tip of the knife on the middle of her forehead and draws it downward, forming a trail of blood as the tip of the knife reaches her jawline. The wisp of red smoke tightens around her leg, digging deeper as it burns the flesh; blood pours out and dribbles on the floor.
"It will leave a scar." Ian caresses her other cheek that doesn't have a drop of blood. "It doesn't matter, does it? You are dying anyway."
