To be perfectly honest, half of my anger is just a bluff. The cold iron of the poker is at odds with the faint glow at its tip, boiling hot and sizzling with the cooler air around it. I can only imagine the sort of damage it could wreak on one's skin with a mere touch, the way the skin would die and shrivel into a severe third degree burn. This is the sort of scar that even the most advanced surgeon wouldn't be able to get rid of.
But I could. I could make it as if there had been no wound to begin with.
The glow on the tip of the poker fades as a realization grows within me. Even if I did use the poker, the speed with which I could heal the mole would make it as if I had done nothing to her. This is perhaps comparable to waterboarding, where despite being a punishment that can cause death it is also easy to disguise since it doesn't leave a mark at all.
Winter? Winter! Stop! Julian sounds frantic in my head, but I pay him little mind.
