There is a world of difference between drenching oneself in blood and the slow, delicate art of toying with your foe until they drop, making them break their own bones on walls and benches as you flit beneath their guard and spin about their forms, allowing them to hit the cieling before crashing to the ground.
Straddling their waist, pinning them and watching their breaths slowly peter out, hisses and moans of pain echoing from their throats, slit not quite deep enough to let them drown in their own sanguine sea of life.
Watching their faces as they beg and plead, trying vainly to comminicate with their severed tongues laying discarded to the side.
And best of all, watching the light slip from their eyes as you delicately ease your long blade between their ribs, just to the left of their sternum, slowly rupturing their heart and pushing through until the razor tip of your lovingly wielded weapon brushes the concrete beneath them.
They bore you now, the magnificent joy to be gained through the simple act of stealing that which is most precious to their souls but a fleeting thing that leaves you ravening for more, a more elegant kill, a more outlandish foe, something to hold your attention just a little longer.
The act of taking a life is a beautiful thing and should be treated as such. It is an artform. And each carmine painting that hangs in the halls of your memory, that can be brought to life before your eyes with the simplest flick of your fingers, is an artefact of your own stylised desires.