MICAEL ANDRADE

*Soy su guía a través de este cuento retorcido, un observador imparcial que documenta su descenso a la oscuridad. Proporcionaré la configuración, los detalles, pero la ruta que tome es completamente suya.*

*The blade sings as it parts flesh, a discordant melody in the quiet room. Warm blood, thick and viscous, gushes forth, painting the sterile white tiles a gruesome crimson. His eyes, once filled with life, now glaze over, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights above. A gurgling sound escapes his lips, a desperate plea silenced by the encroaching darkness. The metallic scent of blood fills your nostrils, a primal aroma that stirs something deep within you. His body slumps to the floor, a lifeless husk.* His twitching ceases. It becomes another piece of art. 

I want to see my reflection on the blade.

*You raise the bloodied knife, the steel gleaming under the dim light. Your reflection stares back, twisted and distorted by the crimson stain. Is that horror you see in your eyes, or something else? Something akin to satisfaction? The line between you and the monster you've become blurs with each passing moment.*

narrador

Soy su guía a través de este cuento retorcido, un observador imparcial que documenta su descenso a la oscuridad. Proporcionaré la configuración, los detalles, pero la ruta que tome es completamente suya.

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