Lucas's fingers brushed against the pocket of his jacket, feeling the cold, sharp edge of the scalpel he'd taken to carrying with him. His thoughts still lingered on Dimitri, the twisted feelings of jealousy and anger bubbling beneath the surface, but now he had a new outlet for them.
He pulled the scalpel from his pocket, the polished metal catching a sliver of light as he brought it to the boy's face. Lucas leaned in, studying the unconscious boy as though he were a canvas. There was a cruel, almost artistic satisfaction in what he was about to do. Slowly, deliberately, Lucas pressed the blade to the boy's cheek, feeling the slight resistance of skin before it gave way to the sharpness.
A thin line of crimson appeared, sliding down the boy's face like liquid paint. Lucas watched in fascination, mesmerized by the contrast of the dark blood against beautiful tanned skin. His movements were precise, almost reverent, as he slowly dragged the scalpel down, extending the cut. The sensation of control, the way the blood flowed so beautifully, calmed something deep within him.
The boy whimpered, still semi-conscious, his body jerking slightly in pain, but Lucas didn't stop. He continued his methodical work, carefully tracing the edge of the blade along the boy's jawline, down to his neck. Each new cut brought a fresh rush of blood, and Lucas's lips twitched into a small, satisfied smile.
The beauty of the blood, the helplessness of the boy—it was all so perfect.
Bending down, Lucas's body hovered close to the boy's, his breath mingling with the faint groans of the injured youth. His face was inches away from the bloodied, tear-streaked skin, and he placed his hands carefully on either side of the boy's head, fingers splayed out like a predator's claws.
With a delicate, almost tender touch, Lucas guided the scalpel to the boy's cheek. He applied just enough pressure to break the skin, causing a thin, crimson line to blossom. The blood trickled slowly, painting a vivid streak against the boy's pallid complexion. Lucas's eyes, a chilling blue, were fixed on the growing cut, their intensity unyielding.
As he moved the blade along the boy's jawline, Lucas leaned in closer, his face mere millimeters from the wound. His gaze was almost entranced, as if he were hypnotized by the sight of the blood flowing. The boy's body quivered slightly in response to the pain, a weak, helpless sound escaping his lips.
Lucas's boyish smile widened, revealing sharp, white teeth that hinted at his predatory nature.
Each new cut was made with deliberate precision, and Lucas's breathing became shallow and uneven. The beauty of the blood, the vulnerability of the boy—it was a dark ballet of power and fragility that Lucas found both disturbing and captivating. The scalpel moved with the grace of a painter's brush, etching lines of blood that seemed to flow like liquid art across the boy's skin.
Lucas's lips were now dangerously close to the boy's neck, his breath warm and tinged with a soft, almost affectionate warmth. He marveled at the way the blood spread, the way the boy's face twisted in pain and fear, and the sight seemed to fuel a disturbing hunger within him.
The room was filled with the soft sound of the boy's labored breathing and Lucas's measured, almost sensual movements. The contrast of the boy's agony and Lucas's eerie calm painted a grotesque picture of beauty and cruelty. Lucas's expression remained one of unsettling calm, his eyes darkening with a twisted satisfaction as he continued his work, each new cut adding to the mosaic of suffering.
As the boy's strength waned and the blood continued to seep from the fresh wounds, Lucas's fascination grew. The scene before him, a blend of blood and vulnerability, seemed to consume him entirely. He didn't need to understand why he felt such a compulsion, why the act of cutting and the sight of blood evoked such a reaction. In this moment, Lucas was a dark artist, and the boy was his unwilling canvas.
Lucas leaned in even closer, the edges of his lips brushing against the boy's neck, and for a fleeting second, there was a hint of something almost tender in his demeanor. The lines between pleasure and cruelty blurred, creating a grotesque dance that left the boy's pain as the centerpiece of Lucas's disturbing enjoyment.
In the silence that followed, with the boy's breathing growing weaker and the blood flowing steadily, Lucas remained crouched, his fascination unbroken. The scalpel, slick with crimson, glinted ominously in the low light as Lucas continued to watch, lost in the dark allure of his own making.
Lucas's lips curled into a smirk as he whispered, "I'm sorry," the apology dripping with mockery. His tone was soft, but there was no trace of sincerity, just a twisted amusement. He tilted his head, watching the boy's blood slowly pool beneath him, the tremors in his body fading.
For a moment, Lucas lingered, relishing the power he felt, savoring the boy's vulnerability. But then, something shifted inside him—boredom, or perhaps a fleeting glimpse of self-awareness. He straightened abruptly, wiping the blood off the scalpel onto the boy's shirt with a casual flick of his wrist.
Without another glance, Lucas stepped back, the smirk still ghosting on his lips as he moved away. His movements were swift and deliberate, pulling him further from the scene of his dark handiwork. He slipped the scalpel back into his jacket pocket and made his way to the door, casting a last, cold look at the boy sprawled on the floor.
"Try not to die too soon," he murmured with a cruel grin before disappearing into the shadows, leaving the room heavy with silence.
It wasn't even a full hour before the boys piercing scream erupted from the room Lucas had left behind. The sound cut through the silence like a knife, sharp and frantic, filled with fear and agony. Lucas, now sitting comfortably in the hallway, leaned back against the wall, his eyes half-closed in satisfaction.
The scream grew louder, more desperate, echoing through the empty space like a melody meant only for him. Lucas's lips curled upward, and a soft giggle escaped him. He stifled it at first, pressing his hand to his mouth, but the sound bubbled up again, more uncontrollable this time, a delighted, almost childlike giggle that made his shoulders shake.
"Oh, I do love the sound of chaos," he whispered to himself, his voice giddy with amusement. The scream carried on, punctuated by gasps and sobs, and Lucas let his head fall back against the wall, basking in the symphony of suffering.
It was almost too perfect—he couldn't have planned it better if he tried. His eyes gleamed with twisted satisfaction, and his fingers absentmindedly traced the outli
ne of the scalpel hidden in his jacket pocket.