Inside the dark, quiet room, the only thing the figure did was stare at the fat man seated before him. The man’s hands were free, yet he trembled like fried at.
Zethan sat calmly, but his eyes—devoid of emotion—held sothing far worse than emptiness. It was the kind of gaze that said, look and die. That was how terrifying it was. Yet now, he simply sat there, motionless. The only part of his body that moved was his hand as he occasionally smoked a cigarette.
Days had passed.
It was as if he didn’t want to accept the death of his wife.
Now, if you asked Lucas, he’d say sothing was definitely wrong. Zethan’s words had beco a luxury—because even before, he rarely spoke, but now, once in a blue moon... sotis, he didn’t at all.
"Why are you just sitting there? Make yourself at ho. It’s not like I bite... or do I?"
The mont those words left Zethan’s lips, the fat man’s body trembled on the chair. It was like even his system had forgotten how to function. He wasn’t breathing—he had forgotten to breathe.
To his surprise, a low chuckle escaped Zethan’s lips once more.
"She can’t be..." Zethan muttered. "They say if she’s alive, my mories will return. But they haven’t. They haven’t—so she’s still alive."
He chuckled again, shaking his head. Staring at the cigarette in his hand, he suddenly pressed the burning tip between his fingers before tossing it aside. His expression darkened as he turned to face the man, whose body now shook uncontrollably.
"Am I right?" he asked slowly.
The man nodded quickly, even though he had no single idea what Zethan was talking about. He had been here for weeks now—and that had been hell. But now, with Zethan here... it was more than the feeling of hell itself.
In fact, the rumors about him being cold weren’t true.
He was far more dangerous than that.
Zethan finally stood slowly, taking his ti before he began to walk.
He moved toward the cupboard at the side, retrieving a glass and a small bottle—there was no mistaking it. It was alcohol, but not the ordinary kind. This one was intense. Dangerous, even.
He opened it.
The room remained silent and still as he poured the liquid softly into the cup.
PLOP. PLOP. PLOP.
The sound echoed in the empty space. What made it even more chilling was the realization that everything—every sound, every movent—felt intentional, calculated. It was as if the universe itself was giving the man a chance to escape.
The two large doors were wide open.
His hands were free.
But his brain... had forgotten how to run.
It had forgotten the very aning of escape.
He had gone numb—paralyzed by the presence standing before him.
"Take this as a simple ASMR..." Zethan whispered as he stirred the blood-colored drink. It shimred under the dim light, the glass catching every glint. Zethan’s lips curled into a smile—but it was lifeless.
He took a slow sip, then looked back at the trembling man.
"Oh, my bad. I had a visitor, yet I didn’t even ask... Would you like a drink?" he asked, voice calm but cold.
The man’s body shook.
"Yes or no?" Zethan pressed, his patience thinning.
"N-no, Mr. Zethan... thank you," the man stamred, barely getting the words out.
Zethan grinned darkly as he clicked his tongue, bored.
"There’s no ’no’ in this hall. But oh well... You didn’t know, right?" he murmured, then tilted his head slightly. "Now, I’m wondering—what’s your favorite shape?"
The man’s body trembled again. Even though it felt like his vocal cords were being crushed, he managed to speak, knowing that silence could an sothing worse.
"S... square," he whispered. That was the loudest he could manage.
"Ah, I see," Zethan said, smiling. "You know, my sharks are quite picky when it cos to at... but they don’t mind shapes. After all—at is at."
That grin.
That horrible, haunting grin.
It told the man everything. No one needed to explain what Zethan ant.
"How about we add triangles? Could make a fine dessert, don’t you think?" Zethan mused casually. "But you know—it all depends on you. I’m just making a suggestion for their lunch."
He leaned closer before his eyes drifted to his watch. "Ohh, almost noon, hmm?"
"So... what do you think?"
The man’s body began to tremble violently as drool slipped from the corner of his mouth in fear. It was as if he were already dying—only he didn’t know how or why. His entire system had shut down, refusing to function. His mind spun with a shock so deep, it went beyond words.
This wasn’t torture.
This was worse than torture.
In fact, it might’ve been easier if he had been tied up—if he knew he was a captive.
But the room was quiet. Calm.
The doors were wide open. His hands were free.
He could run.
He should run.
But the fact that he couldn’t even think of doing it—couldn’t even lift a single toe—was what made everything all the more terrifying.
It was the simplicity of it.
The casualness.
As if he were invisible... irrelevant.
And then, finally, he spoke. Just one word, so faint it was barely a breath.
"Please..."
His lips barely moved, and yet the sound echoed like a scream to his own ears—yet it was a simple whisper.
Zethan slowly turned, his head tilting slightly in mock curiosity. His expression twisted into sothing that looked like amusent—yet darker.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Visitor?" he asked, voice soft, almost sweet. "Or... do you want to change the shapes?"
The man flinched.
"There are so many shapes, after all," Zethan continued, grinning. "We have the pentagon... the octagon..." He let out a low laugh, tapping his glass.
"What else do we have?" he mused aloud, eyes gleaming. "Ah, yes—the kite. What a nice shape, isn’t it?"l
He chuckled, the sound as cold as a grave.
"I’m beginning to think... I could use that for trimming the fat. Since, you know, there’s so much fat and not enough at."
No one needed to ask what he ant.
And that—that silence, that unspoken understanding—was what made it all so much worse.
So much scarier.
At this point, the man didn’t even know what to do.
It was the casualness—the way Zethan spoke, as if they were simply discussing the country’s current events.
As if this were nothing more than the evening news.
So calm. So ordinary.
And that—that calmness—was what made it all the more unnerving.
There was no threat in his tone. No raised voice. No cruelty laced through his words.
Just... a simple conversation. One-on-one. Harmless, on the surface.
And that was what made the man’s body tremble. That was what stripped away any sense of safety.
Then Zethan began to move.
He walked slowly toward the cupboard, his fingers wrapping around a knife with a casual grace. His movents were unhurried, deliberate—every step quiet, controlled.
He stopped, and his voice broke the silence again—calm, steady, terrifying.
"As I said earlier... when I speak, you answer. Is that clear?"
The man’s lips parted to respond, but before the words could form, Zethan flung the knife.
It sliced through the air with bone-chilling precision.
The man had bowed his head just slightly, trembling in submission—but from that angle, the blade skimd the top of his scalp, grazing it clean.
Shhhhk.
Hair fell in soft tufts as the blade cleared a neat path.
The knife continued its deadly arc until it slamd into the wall with a sharp, final thunk, sticking there—still vibrating slightly from the force.
Blood trickled down the man’s forehead in a thin, straight line.
Like a painting.
A line of art. Unwanted one.
And in that mont, the man realized—
Zethan hadn’t even missed.
He had aid for that.
Zethan clicked his tongue. "Tch"
And just as the words left his lips, a massive man entered the room. He was pushing a tal cart, and on it were knives. Not one. Not two. Dozens. All laid out like tools in an artist’s studio.
"Oh, silly ," Zethan said, gesturing toward the man. "et the artist. He’ll be handling the cutting—you know, into the shapes we discussed earlier."
He smiled, turning back toward the trembling man.
"I wouldn’t want to stain my hands. I have other... special treatnts to attend to. Like yours."
Then he added, almost thoughtfully, "But let’s make this free... free, of course.You have the freedom of speech, don’t you?"
At the silent cue from Zethan’s eyes, the massive man moved.
Zethan leaned closer and whispered, "So... will you pick a knife for the shapes? Or perhaps we should use all of them? No harm in a little experintation."
The man’s body trembled violently.
Zethan reached for one of the knives. His voice was still calm—too calm. "The only difference now is... I’ll need to find the best one. So, I’ll experint. Unless... you have a better idea?"
The man finally found his voice. "M..Mr. Z..Zethan, that’s..not—"
Zethan didn’t let him finish. Another knife flew.
Thunk.
It landed dead center—in the man’s shoulder.
Blood began to gush.
"Not bad," Zethan mused. "I’d give that... two out of ten."
He reached for another.
"Better answer quickly," Zethan said, lifting the blade, "or I’ll keep throwing. You just pick whichever one sticks."
Before the man could say this one—hoping that would end it—Zethan had already thrown again.
The knife sliced into his cheek, sliding up and stopping just at the ear.
It hung there, like a grotesque earring.
Blood stread down his face.
The man whimpered in intense pain.
Zethan smiled.
"This one... would be perfect for a pentagon," he said. Then, without hesitation, he flung another—straight into the man’s right knee.
And another—into the left.
The man scread. But his scream was breathless, strangled by sheer pain. Then—
He wet himself.
Urine pooled around his feet, soaking through his trousers.
Zethan tilted his head. "Do I also need to teach you how to take care of yourself?" he said, chuckling lowly.
He stepped forward. "Now... which is best?"
The man sobbed, his whole body shaking. "Please... please. I’ll confess."
Zethan raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Confession ti already? I didn’t know this was needed. But... why not?" He leaned in, whispering, "Disclair: I’m not going to keep it a secret."
"Please..." the man gasped. "If I confess... let go."
Zethan said nothing.
So the man went on, terrified that silence ant another blade.
"I—I planned to kill your wife. I wanted her blood... to live longer."
Zethan’s lips curled into a cold smile.
"Oh, don’t worry," he said. "It looks like you are going to live long."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Inside my shark’s stomach."
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