To cut, her shoulders began to shake before the knife even moved.
When the knife moved, it was precise, flawless, no hesitation in the blade's arc.
The sound came first. Not a scream. Not yet. A wet, strangled noise caught in the back of her throat as the steel dragged forward. Her body convulsed against the grip holding her. Her hands clawed uselessly at Victor's wrist, nails scraping skin that did not loosen. Blood filled her mouth faster than she could swallow.
Across the space, Robert moved.
He was already halfway up before anyone reacted, determination sharp in his twisted expression. Reckless. Doomed. His eyes locked on Victor; losing himself in urgency, he lunged.
Pope met him before he took a second step.
The punch was clean. Brutal. Direct.
