The knife glinted for a moment as it slid slowly over the young woman's neck, through flesh and muscle, as blood from her Jugular flowed down the length of her neck. The struggle had ceased, but he kept his grip round her torso and neck. Her saviour leant down to her ear, whispering into her ear. "You have been freed of your meaningless existence." The grip slowly loosened from round her neck. The blood freely flowed over his fingers, streaking the young woman's golden blonde hair with her own blood.
He allowed the lifeless body to slide from his bloody hand, down to the wooden floor of her apartment. She had been chosen to receive his gift, to be freed, when they had given to him. He cast an emotionless gaze upon her, the blood slowly being absorbed through into the wood, covering the floor in a small pool of blood. He began to move the blade to come to his mouth. The metal hadn't felt as cold as it did earlier, her warmth from her spread over his lips, savouring the moment, before allowing his tongue to slowly lick the length of the blade, removing most of the red liquid. The salty, copper taste invaded his senses, flooding his nose with its scent. All that remained was a thinned smear on the dull blade.
The liberation he had performed hadn't been important, not compared to his mark. All that mattered was the mark, and making them part of him. With the short blade he had obtained on his way from Arkham Asylum, Victor pulled his vest from his abdomen, and he marked the on-going tally he had started that night. With the tip of the knife, he scored the tip over his flesh, feeling nothing but his blood trickling down his stomach. The blood of each ran through his body, something he had made sure to do with each one. Since he had started freeing the mindless zombies, living their pointless existence, he ceased feeling the pain when he first done the marks. The pain had been one true thing that made him to feel human. Victor closed his eyes, the fear in the eyes of his first came to his thoughts. Something he couldn't, mustn't forget what set him upon this path.
Victor ran his bloody hand over the marks he had amassed; each one was special to him and his quest. The slight roughness of each below his hand, he recalled and savoured what he had done, the countless marks adorning his body. There was a special space left for the Bat. There was still something he had to do, gift the others they had chosen to receive only what he could give them. A noble purpose for their dull existence.
Walking to the window he had entered, his heavy leather boots thudded on the floorboards under his weight. He looked back at the young doctor who had believed he had been ill, sick. The wind caught his scarred face as he turned back to the window, the curtains gently whipping against his exposed arms. Soon they would see that he wasn't ill, but see his true calling.
