If there was one thing Lucille loved beyond words, it was the tortured scream of a man.

Particularly, that or a cheating, lying piece of filth that didn't deserve to be called a man.

"Please," the one in front of her pleaded, straining against the straps that bound his wrists to the chair's armrests. "I didn't do anything wrong. I am merely—"

"Unable to control your urges?" Lucille supplied, ticking her fingers. "Let's see what else, hmm? Your wife didn't seem to love you like she used to? You got swayed by temptation and it clouded your better judgment? Or you wanted to feel like the man again, so you decided to employ the help of a young woman? Or are you just tired of beating her every night so you decided to be blatant about leaving her? Which one is it, Mr. Shaw?"

Mr. Shaw didn't answer. He just looked at her with wide, fearful eyes and a quivering mouth. Her lips curled into a sly smile. With her red dress billowing, she turned around and opened the black chest set behind her. Inside it was an array of sharp objects—her prized possessions—wrapped carefully in rolls of linen.

She took out one roll and unfurled it happily on the table between her and Mr. Shaw's chair. The weapons gleamed in the dim yellow light of the gas lamps propped against the brick walls. They came in varying lengths and sizes, but all of them had a common denominator: intricately crafted, sharpened for the gods, and definitely well-used.

And in the well-practiced hands of Lucille, these little trinkets were dangerous. Deadly.

She took a silver dagger and ran a finger down its double-edged blade. "I asked you a question, Mr. Shaw. What's your reason for playing around?"

Once again, he said nothing. It was almost as though he himself didn't know the answer.

That, out of anything, infuriated Lucille. Sure, his stupid pudgy and sweaty face had been pretty comical, but now it was just . . . despicable. Revolting. To the point that she nearly called off their session. It didn't help that she knew perfectly well that she could end this in a heartbeat, with her triumphant and him bleeding out on the floor.

However, just then, her assistant Agnes entered the dungeon and stopped her from stabbing Mr. Shaw's jugular.

Sighing, Lucille snapped her fingers, causing the ropes to tighten around his torso.

"No, please!" He began to sob openly. "Have mercy on me!"

"Oh, hello there, Mr. Shaw." Agnes's eyes flitted nonchalantly at the weeping pig as she walked towards the epicenter of the activity. "I certainly didn't expect to see you grace our dungeon so soon. It's a pleasure to finally see you in the flesh." She winced at the sight of his hairy chest and legs. "Perhaps too much in the flesh."

"I got excited, so I just took him," Lucille explained, setting the dagger down and watching him struggle fruitlessly against his restraints. "He's only been here for an hour, I think. So we still have—"

"Five hours!" Mr. Shaw spluttered. "You had me tied in this goddamn chair for five hours!"

"Oh. Time flies when you're having fun, I suppose." Lucille shrugged. When Mr. Shaw tried to spit at her, but she stopped the ball of drool midair with a flick of her finger. Then, she sent it sailing back onto his forehead, clucking her tongue in mock reproach. "Now, now, there's no need for childish behavior. I really failed to notice the time. Being immortal does that to you. I'm sure you wouldn't relate."

"Who are you?" Mr. Shaw went pale. "What are you? Why are you doing this to me?"

Lucille and Agnes exchanged dubious glances, paused for a moment, and bursted out laughing.

"I love this man already," Agnes mused, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. "He's been in this dungeon for five hours and he still hasn't got a clue why."

"He's quite slow," Lucille agreed in between fits of giggles. "I've been giving him every hint possible. At this point they're not even hints anymore! He's nearly pissing himself, yet he's still asking the dumb questions."

They cackled, their voices ringing out in the cramped space. This intensified Mr. Shaw's confusion, which directly fed into his fear.

This was supposed to be just a normal day. And up until this point it had been normal. He'd gotten up from bed and dressed, kissed his wife goodbye, and ferried to work. Then this woman showed up out of nowhere in his office, charmed all the men, and took special interest in him. They'd talked, and she'd been absolutely splendid.

Then the next thing he knew, he'd had a bag over his head, getting carted away in an unknown place.

Now he was here, stripped down to his underwear with thick ropes binding him to a chair and chafing his skin, watching two strange women casually making fun of him with knives in hand.

Was this his wife's doing? Had she paid for these two to harm him, scare him? Where had she gotten the money?

Most importantly, how had she known of his affairs?

A blanket of pure fear settled over Mr. Shaw. His sweet, gentle, innocent wife.

It wasn't his fault his wife cried a lot and annoyed him, right? It wasn't his fault she tested his temper every night. She deserved to get beaten. She deserved to get hurt under his own hands. . . .

Lucille picked up another dagger, this one longer and pointier than all the others. She approached the trembling man, her shoes making leisurely thumps on the floor. The blade flashed as she raised it to his eye level. Crouching down, she positioned the tip right on his chin, all the while keeping her cool blue eyes locked on his.

"I think you know now," she whispered, her voice a sultry purr. "It's all over your face. You figured it out, didn't you?"

Behind her, Agnes smirked, flicking her short black hair over her shoulder. "Your wife sends her regards."

"How sweet," Lucille said patronizingly. "She's always been sweet, hasn't she, Mr. Shaw? Sweet when not bleeding on the floor somewhere, after you're done with her?"

The man whimpered. "Please. Please don't kill me. I'll do anything."

"It's funny how you always try to negotiate when the damage is done." Lucille sighed and ever so slowly trailed the tip of the blade down his neck, right on his Adam's apple. "It's not good enough. You'll never be good enough."