The man strapped to the table was screaming as the demon ran its hands down his bare chest, its nails digging in and leaving blood in their wake.
Listen to him, the demon prince hissed. Listen to the music he makes. Beyond the table, the man who usually sat on the glass throne said,
“Where are the rebels hiding?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” the man shrieked.
The demon ran a second nail down the man’s chest. There was blood everywhere.
Do not cringe, spineless beast. Watch; savor.
The body—the body that might once have been his—had betrayed him entirely. The demon gripped him tightly, forcing him to watch as his own hands gripped a cruel-looking device, fitting it onto the man’s face, and began tightening.
“Answer me, rebel,” the crowned man said. The man screamed as the mask tightened.
He might have begun screaming, too—might have begun begging the demon to stop.
Coward—human coward. Do you not taste his pain, his fear?
He could, and the demon shoved every bit of delight it felt into him.
Had he been able to vomit, he would have. Here there was no such thing. Here there was no escape.
“Please,” the man on the table begged. “Please!” But his hands did not stop.
And the man went on screaming.
