Fragmented

Disclaimer: I do not own TDK.


Blood.

He waits through the dull grey night, until the fluorescent lights ping on in the early morning. He has his knife, silent, but oh, it sings to him like no other, and the flex of his hand around it is comfortingly familiar. And when the orderly steps into the room, he lunges and jams his blade into the thick tendon at the side of the neck. They grapple, and the other man is strong, but then the scent of the blood hits, thick and sweet as the first line trickles down his flesh, and his wasted muscles turn to iron.