Blood splattered the cold tiles, its crimson tendrils creeping into every crack, glistening under the flickering fluorescent lights. The faint sound of dripping echoed through the empty metro station, each drop falling like the ticking of a clock. Time was running out- for the victim.

The man who was in his thirties, was naked, pinned to the floor like a grotesque insect in a collector's box. Thick, rusted nails had been driven through his wrists and ankles, anchoring him to the cold, unforgiving ground. His chest heaved with panicked breaths, every movement sending fresh pain shooting through his body.

He screamed again, his voice raw and broken, echoing off the tiled walls. But no one would hear him- not here, not in the abandoned section of the metro. From the shadows, the killer emerged. Cloaked entirely in black, their face was obscured by a smiley mask, the painted grin eerily bright against the darkness of their figure. In one gloved hand, they held a scalpel- small, precise, and stained with blood.

The killer crouched, tilting their head as though studying a specimen. The victim sobbed, his voice trembling as he begged, "Please... let me go.

"Did you know," the killer began, their voice calm, almost conversational, distorted into a hollow, mechanical timbre, "that there are 206 bones in the human body? And each one can feel pain in ways you can't even imagine."

The scalpel gleamed in their hand. The man thrashed weakly, his voice hoarse from screaming. "Please... please stop..."

The killer leaned closer, their breath hot against the man's ear. "Oh no, we've barely started." Their tone was laced with perverse satisfaction, the distorted voice crackling like static. "Do you feel that sharp, stabbing sensation in your wrists? That's your median nerve, crushed by the nails. It's why your fingers won't stop twitching."

The man whimpered, his hands trembling uncontrollably against the floor.

The killer pressed the scalpel against his skin, just below the collarbone. They applied a delicate amount of pressure, slicing through flesh with surgical precision. Blood welled up in thick rivulets, pooling beneath him.

"You see," they continued, their tone as calm as a teacher explaining a lesson, "the subclavian artery runs right about here. Sever it, and you'll bleed out in... oh, three to four minutes. But that's no fun, is
it?"

The man's screams filled the air as the scalpel carved a shallow line down his chest. Each movement of the blade was slow, deliberate, almost tender, as though the killer was savouring every second.

"Pain is a fascinating thing," the killer mused, their head tilting as they studied the man's contorted face. "Did you know the human brain can register pain for up to seven minutes after death? | want to see if that's true."

The man's sobs turned to incoherent pleas, his body trembłing violently.

"Oh, stop squirming." the killer scolded playfully, gripping the man's jaw and forcing him to look up at the CCTV camera. "Smile for the audience. You're the star of the show, after all."

The killer turned to the camera and gave a cheery wave, the grin of their mask reflecting the light. Then, they returned their attention to the man, pressing the scalpel into the tender flesh of his abdomen.

"Let's see how long your intestines can stay warm outside your body. shall we?"

The scalpel slid deeper, cutting with an almost surgical elegance. The man screamed, his voice breaking as his body spasmed against the restraints. Blood gushed from the wound, pooling around him in a macabre halo.

"Shhh..." the killer whispered, their voice soft, almost soothing. "You're doing so well. You'll be dead soon, but not yet. I want you to feel every second of this."

The man's breaths came in shallow, panicked gasps. His eyes rolled back, his mind teetering on the edge of consciousness. The killer leaned close, their masked face mere inches from his.

"Don't pass out on me now," they coved, their voice taking on a singsong quality. "We're not finished."

The scalpel moved again, this time tracing the delicate path of a rib. The killer explained every cut, every movement with unnerving precision, delighting in the man's agony. "The intercostal nerves between your ribs are exceptionally sensitive. See how your body jerks every time I touch one?"

The man convulsed violently, his cries reduced to gurgling gasps as blood bubbled from his lips.

When the man's movements finally slowed, his body succumbing to shock, the killer sat back on their heels, admiring their handiwork. The once-pristine tiles were now a canvas of blood and viscera, the man's body a broken, trembling husk.

The killer stood, turning to the CCTV camera one final time. They raised their hand in a slow, mocking wave, the grin of their mask reflecting in the lens.

"Pain is temporary." they rasped, their distorted voice crackling through the empty station. "But my art? My art is eternal."

They vanished into the shadows, leaving behind the
mutilated body and the chilling aftermath-a tableau
of pain and terror, captured forever by the unblinking
eye to the CCTV.