Chapter 38: Special Treatment
A single day had passed, and Naomi still hadn’t woken up.
Zylan sat motionless in a chair by the bed, his legs crossed, a cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers. His half-shot eyes remained fixed on the half-blood sprawled across the cold floor, whose body convulsed with the aftershocks of agony. There was a chill in Zylan’s gaze, a darkness that ran deep, yet it was mixed with a twisted, sinister satisfaction. The man before him had dared to make the fatal mistake of touching something precious—something that was his.
A small, eerie smile crept onto Zylan’s face, revealing a sliver of the satisfaction he took in the man’s suffering. Every shiver, every whimper, every inch of pain etched into the half-blood’s face was a reminder of what happened when someone overstepped their boundaries with what belonged to him.
Zylan took a slow drag from his cigarette, savoring each wisp of smoke as it coiled into the tense, suffocating air of the room. The half-blood’s body writhed on the floor, each movement jerky, almost involuntary, as if every nerve ending was ignited with raw, burning pain. Zylan watched, exhaling the smoke leisurely, his gaze unwavering, as though the cigarette offered the only comfort in an atmosphere thick with dread.
Extinguishing the cigarette with a precise flick, Zylan rose with slow, deliberate movements, his presence towering over the broken figure on the floor. He walked toward him, steps calculated and purposeful, each one echoing ominously in the silent room. Bending down, he brought the still-burning tip of the cigarette to the half-blood’s face, pressing it just under his nostrils. The half-blood hissed as the smoldering heat touched his skin, a guttural noise born of pain and terror. He jerked, but the strength to move, to pull away, was long gone. Instead, he could only cough—a raspy, agonized sound that barely escaped his lips, breaking down into pitiful groans.
Zylan’s hand shot out, his fingers sharp like claws, slashing across the half-blood’s face. The man let out a broken whimper as Zylan’s nails sliced into his cheek, marking him with five bloody imprints that would be his final, agonizing testament. Crimson blood trickled down the man’s face, mingling with the grime and dirt of the floor, creating a macabre blend that seemed to fuel Zylan’s smirk.
The silence was broken by Zylan’s voice, smooth but chilling, laced with a malice that felt colder than the sharpest steel. "How did her blood taste?"
His tone was low, almost a whisper, yet it dripped with venomous intent. He didn’t blink, didn’t waver as he stared down at the half-blood, relishing in the sight of the man’s trembling, the fear evident in every labored breath he took.
The half-blood could barely open his mouth. Words felt like sharp rocks clawing up his throat, but he managed to rasp out, "I... I never touched her...blood." His voice was barely more than a whisper, but the terror was clear.