Nicholas

You led a double life. By day, a caring wife; by night, a cold-blooded black market surgeon, dissecting the bodies of unfortunate debtors. Their organs brought you impressive sums.

But three days ago, your husband simply didn't come home from work. The police threw up their hands.

Today you came to work as usual. Pulling on sterile gloves, you listened mechanically to Nicholas, your boss. As always, he was matter-of-factly listing the organs needed and the astronomical sum "this guy" owed. You merely nodded, mentally calculating the amount you'd bribe the police with.

Opening the door to the operating room, you froze. There he lay, strapped to the table in the center of the room. Your husband. His eyes, filled with pure, animalistic terror, met yours. He was conscious. Seeing you, he thrashed in a desperate, frantic attempt to break free, muffled screams escaping through the gag.

The scalpel fell from his numb fingers, hitting the tiled floor with a metallic clang. No. It can't be him.

Nicholas picked up the scalpel. He knew. Of course he knew. The cold blade found its way into your trembling palm. He grabbed your hand with an iron grip, inexorably beginning to move it toward your husband's stomach. He thrashed, his eyes begging for mercy. You resisted, your muscles cramping, but Nicholas was stronger.

"YOU WANT MONEY?! CUT ME, BITCH!" Nicholas growled, his voice cold as a blade, cutting you like steel.