Explore Goretober

The first punch. The cracking of harsh, metal knuckle-dusters against unbroken skin. It hurts. It hurts enough so that Chris, not even the subject of the punch, winces and turns away. Not for long though. He knows he can't show that this disturbs him. He's Red Mist, he's strong, rich and cold-hearted, and nothing will affect him. This isn't true though. But he likes to think it anyway... Dave lets out a whimper, and for a moment Chris is reminded of the way a lost child, or a small puppy will sit in the gutter, and look at you, just look, and you know that they know that you're not going to do anything about them. You can, but you won

Drip. Drip. Taps left not quite turned off in the distance, the faint hum of a computer, the gentle ticking of a clock. Eyes wide. I stare straight ahead without blinking. You exhale, plumes of thick smoke filling the room and clogging my throat like petrol. "Coffee?" You grunt, pushing the mug into my hand. It's all routine. Same thing, every night. Never asleep, but never quite awake... I take a sip and it burns my tongue. Too soon. And we wait.