Not to him. To herself. To the ceiling. To the steam and the shower water and the four months of carefully constructed cold competence currently floating face-down in the tub water.
He reached for the rasor nearby.
"Hold still, I will soon make you a fuckable woman."
He held the razor like he held everything else.
Without ceremony.
The blade was small — a clean safety razor, one of the things he'd manifested into the bathroom from the labyrinth's ambient resource system the same way he'd manifested the shower and the tub and the soap, the pocket space's architecture bending to his operational needs without requiring explanation.
He brought it to her armpit.
"What—" She flinched sideways. "What are you doing—"
"Hold still."
"That is a 'razor'—"
