Jim still remembered the look in that animal's eyes the first time he did it. So fierce, so…dangerous. Jim couldn't honestly say, "They first time they did it," because Jim hadn't done anything.

These animals hunted in packs, or so Jim thought at the time. Oh, they were a large pack, but mistake could be made as to which one was the leader, the alpha male, the dominant one.

The predator scoped out his prey, the other animals warily stalking behind him, preparing to fall the prey if he attempted to escape. Jim foolishly backed himself into a corner. The human body was not designed to be prey, with its evenly placed eyes on the front of its head.

The hunter pounced, and took his prey's neck in his mouth. Jim cried out in pain and surprise, attempting in vain for one moment to escape. The other animals circled in to partake in the kill.

That first time, it was about control. That first time, it was to send a message, to ensure that Jim knew exactly where he stood. Jim had thought they hunted in packs, but he was wrong. After that, the rest of them dispersed; judging by the drunken male laughter and female cries of distress that reverberated through the thin walls, they were probably doing the same to his friends.

Every night after that, the alpha male had returned to kill him again. Jim was Prometheus—becoming whole each day only to be torn apart again.