Hellen sat back easy in the old metal chair, its frame creaking low under her steady weight as she propped one heavy boot casual on the bed's rusted edge.
She drew slow and deep on a thick cigar, plumes of gray smoke drifting lazy from her lips to thicken the stale, sour air already choked with rot and decay.
The cherry tip glowed hot orange in the dim flicker of the surgical bulb swinging overhead like a hangman's noose, casting jagged shadows across the room's grimy walls.
Her sharp eyes stayed fixed on Viktor's wrecked body—flung wide and helpless in rough ropes that cut red welts into his wrists and ankles, his ruined face gone slack pale under the crust of dried blood and pus.
That grotesque flower jammed in his empty socket leaked slow pink trails down his cheek, staining the stained mattress below. His chest hitched shallow, wet gurgles bubbling faint from his throat.
