Killian’s pov
The underground cells smelled of blood and dampness. It was cold and cramped. The sound of water dripping steadily somewhere in the distance, the sound blending with the occasional clang of metal doors.
A single bulb swung overhead, casting fractured shadows across the room as the man chained to the metal chair struggled weakly against the restraints. His face was bruised beyond recognition, blood running from the corner of his mouth onto his torn shirt.
Killian stood in front of him in complete silence.
The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled to his forearms, exposing blood smeared across his knuckles. A scalpel rested loosely in his hand.
The man coughed painfully, spitting blood onto the floor.
"You're running out of time," Killian said, his voice low and calm
