Broken Neck Paradise

The cold air hit Su Wan’s bare skin the moment the steel door groaned open. It wasn’t the chill of winter—it was the damp, clinging cold of neglect, soaked into concrete and rusted iron. She shivered, but the movement barely registered; her mind was already somewhere else, floating above her body like smoke. The man behind her shoved her forward, his palm flat against her shoulder blade, and she stumbled over the threshold.

The warehouse stretched wide and high, its ceiling lost in shadow. Pale light bled through grimy windows set in the upper walls, casting long stripes across the floor. The first thing she noticed was the smell: blood and rust, thick and metallic, undercut by something sour—sweat, maybe, or fear. The second thing was the line.

Women stood in a ragged queue to her left, maybe twenty of them, all naked except for the sheer black pantyhose they wore. The same kind Su Wan had on. Open-crotch, thin as cobweb, clinging to hips and thighs. Some of them shifted weight from foot to foot. Others stared at nothing. A few had their hands bound with thin white rope. None of them spoke. The only sound was the soft scuff of bare feet on grimy concrete and the distant drip of water from a broken pipe.

Su Wan’s own pantyhose felt damp against her skin. The carrot inside her was cold and hard, a constant pressure that reminded her she was already prepared, already marked. She’d been told to keep it in. For the procession, they’d said. For the line. She didn’t know if it hurt or if she was just numb to it now.

Someone coughed, a wet, ragged sound from the front of the queue. A woman with gray-streaked hair swayed on her feet, and the woman behind her caught her elbow without a word. Su Wan watched them, but her eyes kept drifting to the far end of the warehouse, where a raised platform sat under a bare bulb.

A woman stood beside it.

No—not a woman. The silhouette was slender, draped in a flowing silk robe the color of dried blood. Long black hair cascaded over one shoulder, glossy and straight. The face was delicate, with high cheekbones and a small mouth painted a soft pink. But the throat—Su Wan saw it as the figure tilted their head, the slight bulge moving when they swallowed. An Adam’s apple.

Lin Yu, she thought. The name had been whispered to her before she was brought here. Lin Yu, the executioner. The one who smiled while they killed.

Lin Yu leaned against the platform’s edge, one arm draped over it lazily, fingers drumming a slow rhythm. Their voice rang out, sweet and melodic, like honey poured over glass. “Next, please.”

The woman at the front of the queue started. Her body tensed, but she walked forward, her bare feet slapping against the concrete. Su Wan watched her climb the three shallow steps to the platform. Lin Yu’s hand reached out and brushed the woman’s cheek, a gesture so tender it made something twist in Su Wan’s stomach.

“Good girl,” Lin Yu cooed. “Now kneel.”

The woman obeyed. Her knees hit the platform with a dull thud.

Su Wan forced herself to breathe. Around her, the low murmurs started—a thread of whispers from the women in line, barely audible, like wind through dry grass.

“She’s fast today…”

“Don’t look. Don’t look at her eyes.”

“They said yesterday he did five before lunch.”

“Is it a man or a woman?”

“Does it matter?”

Su Wan’s gaze flicked back to Lin Yu’s throat. The Adam’s apple moved again as Lin Yu laughed, a light, airy sound. The executioner’s hand slid down the kneeling woman’s spine, and the woman shivered.

“So stiff,” Lin Yu said, almost pouting. “Relax. This is the last thing you’ll ever feel. Make it count.”

The murmurs faded. The warehouse fell silent except for the drip of water and the soft rustle of Lin Yu’s robe as they reached for something behind the platform—a thin, curved blade, gleaming under the bulb.

Su Wan’s pulse hammered in her ears. She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t. The carrot shifted inside her, and she clenched her muscles to keep it in place. One more body in the line. One more piece of meat waiting to be processed.

And Lin Yu smiled, sweet and slow, and turned to face the queue again. “Don’t worry, ladies. I have time for all of you.”

The woman on the platform made a small sound, halfway between a sob and a sigh, and then the blade caught the light.

The execution chamber smelled of iron and salt. Su Wan knelt on the cold stone floor, her wrists bound behind her back with rough hemp rope that bit into her skin. She had been here before, twice, but this time was different. This time she had questions.

Lin Yu stood by the wooden block, running a thumb along the blade of the heavy axe. The edge caught the dim torchlight and threw a sliver of gold across the room. The executioner’s hair was dark and long, tied back with a strip of black silk. The face was delicate, almost beautiful—high cheekbones, full lips, eyes that held no warmth but plenty of amusement. A silk robe draped a slender frame. Everything about Lin Yu looked like a woman, except for the voice, which came out low and rough when they finally spoke.

“You keep staring.” Lin Yu didn’t look up from the blade. “Get it out of your system before I have to work.”

Su Wan’s throat was dry. She swallowed, then said, “Why are you… male?”

The thumb stopped moving. Lin Yu lifted their head, one eyebrow arching slowly. A smirk spread across those soft lips. “That’s what you want to ask? On your way to the block?”

Su Wan nodded. Her heart hammered, but the question had been burning in her chest since the first time she saw Lin Yu swing that axe. The first time she saw a neck part cleanly in one stroke.

Lin Yu set the axe down with a soft clank and turned fully to face the condemned girl. “You’ve seen women try, haven’t you? In the villages. In the city squares. Amateur work.” They spat the last two words like they tasted bad.

Su Wan had seen it. A young mother, maybe twenty-two, whose wrists had trembled so badly she hit the back of the prisoner’s skull instead of the neck. It had taken three more swings. The crowd had jeered. The prisoner had screamed for a long time before bleeding out.

Lin Yu walked closer, boots echoing on the stone. “A woman’s arm doesn’t have the same power through the shoulder. The neck bone is thick. You get one clean strike or you get a mess. And I don’t do messes.” They stopped a foot away from Su Wan, close enough that she could smell the oil used on the blade. “What do you think happens when the first blow fails? The prisoner feels everything. The shock. The pain. The sawing motion as they try again. I’ve seen them bite through their own tongues. I’ve seen them pass out and wake up mid-swing.”

Su Wan’s eyes dropped to the floor. The stones were stained dark in patterns she had learned to recognize. Old blood, scrubbed but never gone.

“A man’s body,” Lin Yu continued, quieter now, almost gentle, “can generate the force needed to sever the spine in a single motion. The neck bones break clean. The windpipe, the arteries, all cut through at once. Death is instant. No suffering. No second blow.” They crouched down, bringing their face level with Su Wan’s. “I may look like this, but I was born with the right shoulders, the right arms. The women can do the crying and the mourning. Leave the killing to those who can finish it.”

Su Wan thought of her own flat chest, her narrow hips. She had never been beautiful. She had never been wanted except as a body to be used. And now, at the end, even her executioner was built better for mercy than she could ever be.

“So it’s humane,” Su Wan whispered.

Lin Yu’s smirk softened into something almost not cruel. “As humane as this place gets. One swing, one end. No lingering. No begging. You’re lucky they assigned me to you.”

Su Wan lifted her chin. Her eyes were wet, but she didn’t let the tears fall. “Thank you. For explaining.”

Lin Yu stood up, rolling their shoulders. “Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when it’s over.” They picked up the axe again, testing the weight with a few practice swings.

Su Wan turned toward the wooden block. Her knees scraped against the rough stone as she crawled forward. She laid her neck in the curved hollow of the block, wood smooth from countless necks before hers. She closed her eyes.

Behind her, she heard Lin Yu take a breath, steady and calm.

“Ready?” the executioner asked.

Su Wan nodded.

The blade sang through the air.

The cell door groaned open, and Lin Yu stepped inside, boots clicking against the damp stone floor. Su Wan huddled in the corner, knees drawn to her chest, the shackles around her wrists and ankles clinking with every shallow breath she took. The dim torchlight caught the edge of Lin Yu’s smile—thin, sharp, knowing.

“Twenty minutes,” Lin Yu said, voice silken and unhurried. “I’ll let you have a last taste of pleasure before the blade meets your neck.”

Su Wan’s head snapped up, eyes wide and glassy. “What?”

“Pre-execution comfort. A final act of… mercy.” Lin Yu leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Su Wan like a cat watches a dying bird. “You lie down. I give you a good, hard fuck. And in return, I get your head on a spike. Fair trade, don’t you think?”

Su Wan’s stomach clenched. The word *pleasure* sparked something hot and desperate deep in her chest—a hunger she had never dared to voice, let alone satisfy. She was a flat-chested girl, always overlooked, always obedient. But in the shadow of the execution block, obedience had already failed her. Fear coiled around her ribs, squeezing until she could barely breathe. Yet beneath that fear, something else stirred. A craving. A need to feel something—anything—before the world went black.

“My head?” Su Wan whispered, voice cracking.

“Payment. You don’t get something for nothing, sweetheart.” Lin Yu pushed off the wall and stepped closer, close enough that Su Wan could smell the leather of her gloves and the faint, metallic tang of blood that clung to her clothes. “Twenty minutes of the best cock you’ll ever have. And then I’ll take what’s mine. You’ll barely feel the cut, I promise.”

Su Wan’s hands trembled. She thought of the void waiting for her, of the cold nothingness that would swallow her whole. And then she thought of warmth—of a body against hers, of hands gripping her hips, of a voice moaning in her ear. It was obscene. It was wrong. But it was also *real*, and everything else was slipping away.

“Yes,” she breathed, the word escaping before she could stop it. “Yes, I—I’ll do it.”

Lin Yu’s smirk widened, a predator’s delight glinting in her eyes. “Good girl. Now get up.”

Su Wan staggered to her feet, shackles scraping against the floor. Lin Yu took her by the chin, tilting her head to examine the pale curve of her throat. “Such a fragile neck,” she murmured. “But it’ll hold just long enough.”

Without another word, Lin Yu turned and strode out of the cell, motioning for Su Wan to follow. They walked down a narrow corridor, the air growing colder and heavier with each step. The execution chamber loomed ahead—a high-ceilinged space lined with torches, the wooden block and blood-stained basket at its center. A single iron hook hung from the ceiling, waiting.

Lin Yu stopped beside the block and gestured to it. “Lie down. Face up.”

Su Wan’s legs trembled as she approached. The wood was rough beneath her palms, stained dark with the residue of countless other heads. She hesitated, but Lin Yu’s hand pressed against her shoulder, firm and unyielding.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Su Wan lowered herself onto the block, her back flat against the splintered surface, her head cradled in the curved notch that would soon hold her still. The shackles bit into her wrists as she gripped the edges of the block, knuckles white. She stared up at the iron hook, at the flickering shadows dancing across the ceiling.

Lin Yu loomed over her, one hand on the buckle of her belt. “Close your eyes,” she said, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “And don’t scream until I tell you.”

Su Wan’s breath hitched, but she obeyed. The darkness behind her eyelids was thick and warm. She felt Lin Yu’s weight settle over her, felt the press of leather-clad fingers against her thigh. And for a moment, before the final bargain was sealed, Su Wan let herself pretend that this was a beginning, not an end.

Lin Yu’s fingers found the collar of Su Wan’s thin cotton dress. There was no gentleness in the grip, no prelude of tenderness—just a sharp, decisive tear. The fabric gave way with a sound like a wounded animal, splitting from throat to hem in one brutal motion. The dress fell away in two ragged halves, exposing the pale, narrow chest beneath.

Su Wan’s breasts were nearly nonexistent—small, flat discs of flesh with nipples that shrank under the cold air. She shivered, but not from the chill. Her hands came up instinctively to cover herself, then hesitated, falling back to her sides. She had been told to be still. Obedient. That was how it worked here.

Lin Yu’s expression remained unchanged. They were kneeling on the thin mattress in the corner of the concrete room, the single bare bulb overhead casting stark shadows. Lin Yu’s eyes moved over Su Wan’s body the way a butcher’s eyes move over a hanging carcass—not with desire, but with appraisal. Time wasted on soft touches was time stolen from the next client. Efficiency was the only currency that mattered.

Without a word, LinYu positioned Su Wan on her back. The girl’s legs were pushed apart roughly, knees bent, the thin cotton of her underwear the last barrier. Lin Yu pulled it aside with a thumb and forefinger, tearing the elastic. Su Wan gasped—a small, sharp sound that might have been surprise or pain.

“Please,” Su Wan whispered, her voice trembling but not broken. She had practiced this. She had read the stories from other girls, heard the rumors in the holding cell. *Make it mean something. Make him see you.* “Please, just—look at me. I’m here. I’m real.”

Lin Yu did not look at her face. They were already settling between her thighs, the weight of their body pressing down. The shaft was already hard, a clinical tool, not a connection. There was no kiss, no caress, no murmured reassurance. Just the blunt tip pressing against her entrance, and then the push.

Su Wan bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. The intrusion was dry, almost painful, but she forced her body to relax. She had to feel something. Anything. She arched her back, trying to meet the rhythm, trying to draw a response from the executioner above her.

“Yes,” she breathed, her fingernails digging into Lin Yu’s shoulders. “Yes, like that. Please, don’t stop.”

Lin Yu’s hips moved mechanically. In, out. A steady, metronomic rhythm. Their mind was elsewhere—counting the seconds, tracking the sweep of the second hand on the cheap plastic watch strapped to their wrist. Three minutes and forty-seven seconds so far. Acceptable. The ones who cried took longer. The ones who fought wasted even more time. Su Wan was one of the quiet ones. That was good.

Su Wan tried to lift her hips, tried to grind against Lin Yu’s pelvis, seeking friction, seeking a spark of pleasure that would make this more than a transaction. Her hands slid down from Lin Yu’s shoulders to their waist, gripping the fabric of their shirt. She tried to pull them closer, deeper.

“Wait,” she gasped. “Give me—just a moment—I want to feel you.”

Lin Yu’s hand clamped over her wrist, forcing it back to the mattress. The grip was iron. Su Wan’s wrist bones ground together, and she cried out—not in pain, but in frustration. Her eyes, wide and desperate, finally met Lin Yu’s.

And saw nothing. No anger. No pity. No desire. Just the flat, patient gaze of a machine counting down.

“Stop moving,” Lin Yu said. Not a request. A command.

Su Wan’s body went still. Her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. She had wanted this to be something. A final act of humanity, a last taste of being seen. Instead, she was just a warm hole on a cold mattress, and the man above her was already thinking about the next one.

Lin Yu’s hips continued their rhythm. One minute left. Then clean up. Then the next girl. Her name was Mei, she thought. Flat-chested too, but with a mole on her chin. Easy. Quick.

The minutes crawled. Su Wan lay beneath them, her body betraying her with small, involuntary shudders, her mind screaming for a touch that never came. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine a lover, a beach, a life that never existed. But the only image that came was the bare bulb above her, and the shadow of the executioner, and the cold press of the knife hidden in Lin Yu’s boot.

When it was over, Lin Yu pulled out without warning, already reaching for the rag to wipe themselves clean. Su Wan curled onto her side, her torn dress around her waist, her fingers touching the place where the warmth was already fading.

She had not come. She had not even been close.

But Lin Yu was already at the door, calling for the guard, thinking of Mei, thinking of the schedule, thinking of another night of the same.

“Next,” Lin Yu said, and the word was flat as a tombstone.

The sudden halt of Lin Yu's footsteps echoed through the small, windowless room. The air, thick with the scent of stale sweat and something metallic, grew still. Lin Yu turned, the motion fluid and deliberate, the hem of her—his—white shirt catching the dim light from the single bulb overhead. The knife in his hand gleamed, a sliver of polished moon against the grimy walls. "Time's up," he said, his voice flat, devoid of the mocking warmth it had held just moments before. The words fell like stones into a still pond, and Su Wan felt the ripples of their finality spread through her chest.

Su Wan's eyes, still heavy-lidded from the fleeting daze of his earlier touch, snapped open. A tremor ran through her body, a raw and desperate thing. She pushed herself up on her elbows, her thin wrists straining against the invisible bonds of her own fear. "No, please," she whispered, the sound cracking in her dry throat. She swallowed, tried again, her voice rising in a ragged plea. "Just a little more time. Please. I wasn't ready. I wasn't..."

Lin Yu stood motionless, his head tilted slightly, a faint, unreadable curve on his lips. He watched her with the detached interest of a collector examining a flawed specimen. "Ready?" His tone was soft, almost curious, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable. "You had twenty minutes. That's more than most get. Efficiency is a virtue, Su Wan."

She scrambled to her knees, the cold concrete biting into her skin through the thin fabric of her school uniform. The skirt, already hiked up from his earlier ministrations, bunched around her thighs. She reached out, her fingers trembling, grazing the sleeve of his shirt. "I'm not asking for much. Just... just a moment. One more moment." Her voice broke, spilling into a sob she couldn't contain. "I need this. I need to feel something before—"

"You need nothing." Lin Yu's hand moved, not to comfort, but to gently, almost tenderly, brush her fingers away from his sleeve. He stepped back, creating a space between them that felt as vast as a chasm. "Your needs ended when the clock stopped. I'm not your lover. I'm not your savior. I'm the hand that closes the door." He glanced at the knife, then back at her, his eyes cold and clear. "And the door is closed."

Su Wan's shoulders slumped. The hope that had flickered in her chest, a tiny, guttering flame, was snuffed out. She stared at the floor, at the faint cracks in the concrete, at her own pale knees. Her body still hummed with a low, aching tension, a hunger that had been roused but left unsated. The ghost of his touch lingered on her skin, a cruel memory of pleasure that would never reach its peak. She felt the despair settling into her bones, a heavy, leaden weight. It wasn't the fear of death she hated—she had made her peace with that—it was this, this unfinished symphony of flesh and nerve, the cruel promise of release that would never come.

Her voice came out as a whisper, barely audible. "It's not fair."

Lin Yu watched her for a long moment. Something flickered in his gaze—impatience, perhaps, or a faint trace of annoyance at her lack of grace. He sighed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. "Fair?" he repeated, as if tasting the word for the first time and finding it bitter. "Fair is a word for children and fools. You made your choices. I made mine. Now we both live with the consequences. Or, in your case, die with them." He turned, his footsteps echoing once more, heading for the door.

Su Wan remained on her knees, her body still trembling with the remnants of her futile desire. The room felt smaller, the air thinner. Her hands fell limp at her sides. The clock on the wall had ticked its last. There would be no more time.

Lin Yu’s fingers curled around the worn wooden handle of the cleaver, feeling the familiar grooves where years of sweat and blood had soaked into the grain. The blade caught the dim light of the execution shed, a cold gleam that promised precision. Beneath him, Su Wan knelt on the damp stone floor, her hands bound behind her back, the frayed rope digging into her wrists. Her neck was exposed—pale, slender, the vertebrae faintly visible beneath the taut skin. Lin Yu took a breath, centering himself. The heft of the weapon was perfect. He raised it slowly, letting the weight settle into his shoulders, then brought it up high, the edge angled just so. A clean strike, straight through the third and fourth cervical vertebrae. Quick. Efficient. The way it should be.

“Wait!” Su Wan’s voice cracked through the silence, sharp and desperate.

Lin Yu’s arm hesitated for a fraction of a second. His eyes narrowed. The girl had been quiet throughout the procession—head down, shuffling steps, no tears. He had almost admired her composure. But now this. A last-second plea. It irritated him. He didn’t lower the blade.

“What is it?” he asked, his tone flat, almost bored. He had heard a thousand variations of the same request: a last prayer, a final message, a plea for mercy that would never come. He had no patience for them.

Su Wan’s body trembled, but when she spoke again, her voice was steadier than Lin Yu expected. “I just… I want to feel it. One more time. Before the end.” Her words were muffled, her chin tucked toward her chest. She shifted her weight, pressing her thighs together. The shame and the need warred in her, but the need won. “Please. Just a hand. Just a touch.”

Lin Yu’s lip curled. He understood now. It was always the same with these ones. The fear, the numbness—they sought a final anchor in the flesh, a last spike of pleasure to ride into oblivion. He found it pathetic, but also, in a twisted way, amusing. The livestock always bleated right before the slaughter.

“No,” he said. The word was final, cold as the steel in his hands.

Su Wan’s breath hitched. She opened her mouth to speak again, but Lin Yu had already made his decision. Her delay was an inefficiency, a wrinkle in the smooth fabric of his work. He would not indulge it.

The cleaver descended.

It was not a wild chop, not a clumsy swing. Lin Yu’s arms moved with the practiced economy of a man who had done this hundreds of times. The blade cut through the air with a whisper, then met flesh. There was a sound—a wet, clean crack, like a thick branch snapping under a boot. The vertebrae parted. The skin tore in a clean line. Blood erupted in a hot spray, painting the wall to Lin Yu’s left in a wide, arterial arc. The head separated from the body with a soft thump as it hit the stone floor, rolling once, twice, before coming to rest face-up. Su Wan’s eyes were still open, still wide with that final unspoken plea, her lips slightly parted as if she might speak again. But there was no sound. Only the gurgle of blood still pumping from the stump, the twitch of the body as it slumped forward, and the steady drip-drip-drip of red pooling around Lin Yu’s boots.

He stood still for a moment, watching the head. The eyes blinked once, then went glassy. He felt nothing—no satisfaction, no disgust. Just the quiet confirmation that the job was done. He wiped the blade on a rag slung over his belt, then turned to the waiting assistant.

“Clean this up,” he said. “I’ve got three more this afternoon.”

The herringbone pattern of the warehouse floor was still wet in places, dark smears leading from the drain to the worktable where Su Wan’s body lay. Lin Yu wiped the bone saw clean with a rag, tossed it into the sink, and turned to survey the remains. The torso had been bagged already, the limbs sorted into their respective cooling drawers. Only the head remained, face-up on the stainless steel, eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly open as if she had been about to speak.

Lin Yu picked it up by the hair—still warm at the roots—and carried it to the small side table where the preservation kit waited. A shallow basin, a bottle of saline, a jar of sterile cotton, and the custom container: a vacuum-sealed acrylic cube with a soft silicone cradle inside. The cube sat on a bed of crushed pink quartz, absurdly decorative, like a jewelry box for a princess.

“You’re lighter than you look,” Lin Yu murmured, setting the head into the basin. The neck stump made a wet suck against the metal. The cold water from the tap ran pink for a moment, then clear. Fingers worked carefully, wiping away the dried flakes from the brow, the cheeks, the chin. A smudge of grease from the saw near the left ear. Lin Yu pressed a cotton pad to it, rubbed gently until the skin was clean.

The face looked peaceful now. Almost pretty, in a doll-like way. The flat chest had been a disappointment—nothing there to play with, no weight to appreciate—but the face was delicate. Small nose, soft lips, a hint of baby fat still lingering in the jaw. She would do.

LinYu lifted the head from the basin, cupping the jaw and the crown, and tilted it to drain the water from the mouth. A thin trickle ran out, then stopped. The lips were slightly chapped. A thumb brushed over them, pressing gently, feeling the give of flesh. Still fresh. Still pliant.

“You’ll hold together,” Lin Yu said, voice low, almost affectionate. “At least a year, if I keep the seal tight. Maybe longer if I treat you right.”

The lips parted under the pressure, revealing a sliver of tongue. Lin Yu pressed harder, feeling the teeth behind them, the slight resistance of the jaw hinge. Then pulled the thumb away and wiped it on the thigh of the coveralls.

The acrylic cube had a foam liner shaped like a negative of a human head. Lin Yu settled Su Wan’s face into it, adjusting the angle so the eyes stared upward, the mouth slightly agape—that look of perpetual surprise, of interrupted sleep. The lid clicked into place with a hiss of escaping air. A small valve on the side allowed for future injection of preservative fluids. Lin Yu tightened it with two fingers.

“There. Comfortable?” A soft laugh. “No more worrying about exams. No more worrying about anything.”

The cube was placed on a shelf next to two others. One contained a redhead with freckles, the other a woman in her forties with a severe underbite. Lin Yu arranged them so Su Wan sat between them, like a family portrait. Stepped back. Nodded.

From outside the warehouse, a truck engine rumbled to a stop. A horn honked twice—the signal. Then the sound of a tailgate dropping, chains rattling, voices shouting. A woman cried out, high and frightened, and a man’s voice barked back, “Shut up and walk.”

Lin Yu’s smile faded. The small crease between the eyebrows deepened. Another batch. Now. When the head had just been sealed, when the hands were still wet, when the satisfaction of a clean job was still settling in the chest. Always another batch.

“For fuck’s sake,” Lin Yu muttered, pulling off the gloves and tossing them into the bin. The coveralls came next, unzipped and stepped out of, revealing the slim figure underneath in a plain gray sweater and jeans. A quick wipe of the hands on a towel, then a brush through the short hair to tame the strands that had escaped the cap.

The shouting outside grew louder. More crying. The clang of a gate.

Lin Yu walked to the door, paused, looked back at the shelf. Su Wan’s glassy eye caught the overhead light, shining like a wet pebble.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Lin Yu said, and pulled the door shut.

Lin Yu wiped the blood from his fingers onto a rag, the motion precise and unhurried. He turned back toward the execution platform, where the next woman was already being guided forward by the attendants. Her steps were short, hesitant, as though the stone floor might open up and swallow her whole. He recognized the type—flat chest, narrow shoulders, eyes that darted everywhere but at him. Another student, probably. They always came in batches.

"Lie down," Lin Yu said, gesturing with a tilt of his chin toward the wooden frame.

The woman—Su Wan, according to the ledger he had glanced at earlier—stopped a few feet away. Her hands were clasped in front of her, knuckles white. She looked at the platform, then back at him, her lips trembling.

"Will it... will it hurt?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lin Yu's jaw tightened. The same question. Always the same question, as if each woman believed herself unique enough to receive a different answer. He took a slow breath and let the irritation settle in his chest like a familiar weight.

"Everyone asks that," he said, his tone flat. "Lie down."

Su Wan didn't move. Her fingers twisted together, and she swallowed hard. "I mean, is there... is there any way to make it not hurt? Please. I just—I don't want to suffer."

Lin Yu stared at her for a long moment. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor. He could feel the seconds ticking away, each one a small theft from his schedule. Three more after this one. At this rate, he'd be here until nightfall.

Inside, he cursed. They always wasted time. They cried, they bargained, they asked the same idiotic questions as if pleading could rewrite the laws of the world. It was a script, worn and tedious, and he had played his role in it so many times that the words felt like gravel in his throat.

"You won't suffer," he said, because that was the line that got them onto the platform fastest. He gestured again, more sharply this time. "Just lie down and close your eyes. It will be quick."

Su Wan hesitated, her gaze flickering to the restraints, the stained surface, the drain at the base. Something crossed her face—fear, yes, but also a strange, flickering hunger that Lin Yu had seen before. The ones who wanted a last taste of sensation, even if it came from the edge of a blade. He found them marginally less annoying, but only just.

She moved at last, her legs unsteady as she climbed onto the platform. Her hands shook as she lowered herself onto her back, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. The attendants stepped forward to secure her wrists, but Lin Yu waved them off. He preferred to do it himself. The control, the precision—it centered him.

As he reached for the first strap, Su Wan turned her head to look at him. "Will you be the one doing it?"

"Yes." He pulled the leather tight around her left wrist.

"And you're sure it won't... I mean, I heard sometimes—"

"You heard wrong." Lin Yu cut her off, his voice harder now. He fastened the second strap. "I've done this hundreds of times. You'll be dead before you feel anything. Now stop talking."

Su Wan's mouth closed. Her eyes glistened, but she didn't cry. Instead, she let out a long, shuddering breath and seemed to sink into the platform, as though surrendering to the inevitable. Lin Yu worked quickly, securing her ankles, checking the tension on each strap. The woman's stillness was a small mercy.

He straightened and reached for the instrument on the tray beside him. The weight of it was familiar, comfortable. Behind him, the attendants had already turned to fetch the next one. Efficient. That was how he liked it.

He looked down at Su Wan, whose gaze had fixed on the blade. Her lips parted, and for a moment he thought she would ask another question. But she only closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.

Finally, Lin Yu thought. One less interruption. He centered the tool and began.