SLAM.
It was his face-first into the floor.
Blood exploded from his nose in a wet, violent spray that painted the concrete in a grotesque arc. Teeth shattered like brittle glass against the unforgiving surface, shards embedding into split gums and shredded lips.
The impact caved in part of his cheekbone with a sickening crunch that echoed wetly inside his skull.
Still, no sound escaped.
His throat belonged to the dark now, and the dark had no interest in letting him beg, whimper, or even draw one last rattling breath. Black ichor — thick, living, corrosive — leaked from the fresh wounds in heavy, sluggish rivers, mixing with his blood in ugly, hissing puddles that bubbled and steamed like acid eating through flesh.
The mixture gnawed into the concrete, releasing faint wisps of black vapor that crawled upward and clung to his skin like parasitic worms.
The shadowy hands lifted him again.
