88

JAXON

The air that filled the room reeked of toxicity, tasting like an acidic element that was enough to gut one's intestines out. I could feel it on my skin and my tongue. Breathing it in, even. But just like all times, it barely gained any ounce of reaction from me. The rancid and pungent smell of the dried blood that was scattered across the fading walls in stripes seemed like any other normal smell to me.

I had grown to find it fascinating.

But what, however, was beginning to get on my nerves was the lack of cooperation from the man tied upside down a few feet away from me. The familiar black material of his black tee that he was wearing the day we grabbed him at Micah's hideout had been adorned with several holes that were a result of the bloody pocket knife which I was tossing up and down in my hands.

The blood that dotted off his body dropped to the floor like tiny raindrops and beneath him, was a pool of his blood which I had taken upon myself to drain out of him if he didn't