In a composed, almost artistic manner, as if he were merely sketching on a canvas, Kafka knelt beside the first son.
He produced a small knife from his pocket—not the scalpel, but a sharper, broader blade and began to cut away the young man's clothes, slicing through the fabric with precise strokes until finally the son's back was laid bare, pale and trembling under the cold night air.
Kafka then glanced at the father, his eyes locking onto the man's horrified gaze for a brief, chilling moment, as if to say: Watch closely, what I'm about to do to your sons.
And then, without a word, he returned his attention to the son, raising the scalpel near his neck.
And just like that, the blade sank into the flesh at the base of the son's neck, not deeply enough to kill, but just enough to pierce the skin—a few centimeters, no more.
"Mmm!~ Ahhh!~ Aughhh!~ Hahhhh!~"
The son's body convulsed, a muffled scream tearing through his gag as pain seared through him.
