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ANGEL OF SMALL DEATH / 00. prologue
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In the dead of night and on the brink of death, a man laughed.
It was a rattling sound, the type that made the darkness hug tighter and make the walls seem closer, echoing around a space that had once been homely. Now, just like the rest of the world, it was bloody, patterned by the choking breaths that shuddered under the heel of a man pressing down on her throat.
His hands, long given up on grappling against his captor, fell to the floor, the dull thud of his knuckles against flagged stone covered by the sudden explosion of hysteria–– his body almost convulsed with it, bruised skin flashing under the moonlight as his assaulter stared, incredulously, down at his wide, bloodstained smile.
It had been a slow death, taking its time with all of the lavish luxury he could afford. He'd made sure that he'd feel it, every inch of it, working his way through the victims body with the threat to dismantle it piece by piece.
It was because of that he'd expected him to beg for mercy, for pleas of terror and horror and a undying fear of death––
A laugh, he admitted, was a blindspot.
"I'm glad you find your suffering funny," He remarked, foot pressed down tighter and tighter until the sound of his laughter was barely a whisper, "But I'm afraid you haven't heard my best joke––"
He gasped and choked again, but did not fight it, allowing the man to tease with the idea of crushing his neck with such simple movements yet incredible power.
This, normally, wasn't his chosen method of murder, but this man had proven herself to be quite tricky. Witches, admittedly, tended to be. He'd killed a fair share of them in his lifetime, not too little but rather, probably, too many. They almost always seemed to be full of surprises, but over the past thousand years, he'd gotten smart.
