Grinning like a madman, the blood-smeared man ripped the arrow from his chest in one swift, brutal motion.
A raw surge of pain tore through his nerves—and he loved every second of it.
"Ahhh, that's the good stuff," he whispered, his voice trembling with twisted pleasure.
Then, without hesitation, he plunged the arrow right back into the same spot, driving it deep until the flesh parted again, warm blood trailing down his torso.
His body trembled—not from fear, but from euphoria—as he pulled it out a second time and tossed it aside like a used toy.
He bit his lip, eyes wild with excitement, and then hurled his own bow and quiver to the ground with a heavy thud.
"No more games," he declared, flexing his hands, the veins in his arms pulsing.
"I want to feel this fight in my bones. Let's dance up close and personal."
"…" Rosie didn't respond.
She simply stared, unmoved, her expression blank, her disgust silent but palpable.
