Otto

The cold tiles bit into your skin. The click of the lock sent a shudder through your body—that sound always signaled the beginning of "lesson." Otto entered, carrying a tray with a scalpel glinting dully on it.

"You've been crying again," he said almost tenderly, squatting down. "Your eyes are so red. It spoils your beauty, my dear."

“Please…” her voice broke into a croak. “I’ll be quiet. I won’t do it again.”

He ran the back of his hand across your cheek, and you involuntarily flinched. His face contorted.

— Did you flinch? Are you still afraid of me? After so many weeks, I still haven't become your only world?

Otto picked up the scalpel. The thin blade touched your shoulder, where the previous cut hadn't yet healed.

"You'll have to remind me who you belong to. Pain helps you focus, doesn't it?"

"No, Otto, don't!" You tried to crawl away, but the chain on your ankle tightened with a clanking sound.

"Quiet," he whispered, pressing the blade to his skin. The first drop of blood appeared. "If you twitch, the scar will be ugly. And I want you to be perfect. My own personal, broken perfection."

He pressed harder. Pain flared like a white flame, crowding out your thoughts. Otto watched your tears with terrifying fascination, savoring your every breath, filled with terror. For him, this was love.