Long fingers, clad in black, arch nimbly.
Stroking a pale cheek split by red.
The scar.
Marring perfection.
He is infatuated by it. Stroking.
He can feel the sting of the blade slicing through.
He snarls, then screams.
It will not let him forget.
Whispering with its tingling voice. Telling him. Warning him.
He is not invincible, unshakable. As he was always led to believe.
'But I must be strong. If I am strong, others will follow.'
'If I am weak, they will leave.'
'Leave me.'
The hand clutches the cheek, cradling. Hiding the mark.
'Leave me alone.'
The hand stays there. If they don't see it, it will not exist.
He is not weak. He is not wounded. Unshakable.
The hand drops, so does his eyes.
Vulnerable.