"I'm sure," he echoes softly, and with dutiful precision he lifts his arm and backhands Rush soundly across the face. Simple, unimaginative, but no less brutal for it, and leaving no time for recovery; his hand follows the arc to grip the man's neck, digging his thumb unforgivingly at the hinge of chin and throat, pressing his airways shut. He sinks in close, almost straddling the chair, and with his other hand he slips a box cutter from his pocket.

Knives were certainly available. But there is a certain appeal to the box cutter. Perhaps it holds a special place in his heart. But this time he will not be slitting the throat. He must be slow. And Rush will be kept alive.

Keeping his hand on the handle of Rush's throat, he cuts a thin, deep line down Rush's cheek: a clean slice through still-stinging skin.