Pushes me down in front of the chair.
Then sits.
Crosses one leg over the other.
Stares.
“But I’m not Damien.”
My heart stutters.
“Who—”
“I’m the surgeon. The one who opened you. The one who cut out the part of you that lied. The one who knew you loved it before you did.”He leans forward. “You’ll meet the priest next. And after him…the executioner.”
I swallow.
“How many are there?”
His grin slices across his face. “Enough to keep you worshipping until you forget who you were.”
He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled like he’s evaluating a specimen beneath surgical lights.
No softness in his gaze.
Not even hunger.
Just calculation.
“You bled easily,” he says.
Not like an insult.
Like a fact.
Like a diagnosis.
I don’t answer.
I don’t know if I’m allowed to.
“You flinch less now. That’s good.”
He rises, slow and deliberate.
Circles me.
Each step silent, deliberate, measured like the ticking of an expensive clock.
“Do you know what I removed?” he asks.
I shake my head.
He stops behind me.
Touches the collar.
Just brushes his fingers along it.
