"Was it a success?" a low and weak voice whined inside a room. Aside from the half-open windows, no other ways for the beams of the sun to enter the room shrouded in darkness. Coldness streamed the room.
Opposite the windows was a bed adorned with golden beads over its edges with thin, and expensive curtains blurring the view of anyone who wanted to peek inside.
But the man, kneeling on one, has never tried to raise his head, nor throw a glance at the man inside the bed. A thick hood was covering his face, but it wasn't enough to hide the markings under his neck: droplets of blood inside a circular pattern.
"It was. But—"
Chains rattled inside the bed. And the last thing the kneeling man heard was a struggle of both anguish and cry leaving someone's windpipe.
"It was—but?" the man said weakly. The struggling voice ended with a smooth, and lifeless arm hanging over the edge of the bed.
