Chapter 31

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BGM: Super Psycho Love

Herstal’s hand was still tightly clutching the front of Albarino’s shirt; he had the illusion that the bubbling blood inside his fingers was aflame. He could feel that his fingers were slowly squeezing out Albarino’s blood from the fabric.

The other just gazed at him, confusion caused by dizziness still lingering in his gaze. Albarino blinked, his expression resembling the verge of a smile. Then he slowly licked away the blood that was still trickling from his lips, hissing lowly from the wound on his skin.

A drop of blood fell along the edges of the wound, red as if it were Hades’ pomegranate seeds, dripping onto somewhere.

In the next second – for some reason – Herstal’s lips had already crashed onto Albarino’s mouth, his teeth holding that warm flesh, sucking fresh blood from between the split wound.

Albarino gave a low whimper, a sound between genuine astonishment and fake laughter. The fingers he had circled around Herstal’s wrist loosened, changing to grasp the fabric of Herstal’s shirt on his shoulder.

Sleeping with one of the most dangerous men he knew was obviously not a good idea, an idea that was probably only marginally better than sleeping with Officer Bart Hardy himself.

“this novel was first published on GRain Translations Site. If you are not reading here then you are reading on a pirate site.”

In short, when Herstal forcefully pushed Albarino against the wall, licking the blood off his lips, he could feel that this literal psychopath was already hard, the bulge pressing against his thigh.

“How uninteresting it is to put me in the same place as your previous victims – especially when you also admit that we are different.” Albarino murmured against his lips, in a tone lying on the thin line between extreme calmness and complete madness, “In that case, tear me down, reconstruct me, brand me, display me in front of them. Perhaps you will –”

Then his voice abruptly stopped.

Although Albarino didn’t even think about struggling, Herstal still pressed a hand against his neck with a little more force than needed, carefully controlling the total amount of air inhaled, inevitably leaving bruises on that area of the skin.

As Herstal gnawed on his lips all the way to the blood-stained skin at the corners of his mouth, Albarino’s hand suddenly crawled up his chin.

“this novel was first published on GRain Translations Site. If you are not reading here then you are reading on a pirate site.”

Albarino had tried to wipe the blood off his cheek with that hand in vain, so now there was still some blood on his fingers which hadn’t dried up, so it left a deep red mark on Herstal’s chin. When he opened his mouth, Herstal could feel his vocal chords tremble beneath his fingers, his voice still hoarse.

“Hey,” Albarino whispered, an odd, drunken smile on his face, “be careful not to leave any traces of DNA behind.”

Herstal fixed his eyes on him.

There was almost a flicker of darkness in Albarino’s eyes; bizarrely, the shadows projected on his face by the flames still made him look like he was smiling. “Or else, when you tear me into fragments and display me in front of the police, they will find you.”

How can those terrified vague fingers push

The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?

And how can body, laid in that white rush,

But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

When Albarino was pressed to the ground, the back of his head hit the floor very not gently. His hair was filled with blood which hadn’t dried up yet. He felt bursts of sharp pain; some part of his scalp must have split open.

Albarino hissed in pain, sounding like he was gasping for air as he laughed: “You don’t want to cause your victims to have a brain concussion. Then, while you kill them, they couldn’t help but vomit – this probably won’t be too presentable for the Pianist.”

“You seem to have no problem putting yourself in the position of the victim.” Herstal pointed out as he reached his fingers through the lower hem of Albarino’s shirt, touching his abdomen. The other shivered slightly under the iciness of his fingers.

“What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Navy Seals, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on Al-Quaeda, and I have over 300 confirmed kills. I am trained in gorilla warfare and I’m the top sniper in the entire US armed forces. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the fuck out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my fucking words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the Internet? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across the USA and your IP is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re fucking dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the United States Marine Corps and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your fucking tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You’re fucking dead, kiddo.

“

But for the most part, he just lay there uncomfortably but undisturbed, half permeated by the light of the fireplace which hadn’t gone out yet, and half immersed in the darkness, occasionally illuminated by the lightning outside the window.

The rain still hadn’t stopped. If Elliot Evans hadn’t died, Herstal was likely to turn into a corpse after this rain.

“Why not? I’m really curious what you would do.” Albarino replied frankly. “When you’re faced with a situation completely different from the past, more often than not a completely new strength will erupt from you. In these moments……”

He lowered his voice a little.

“I would think that, rather than decorating your body with larkspurs, it was slightly more significant for you to be alive.”

“According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyway because bees don’t care what humans think is impossible. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Ooh, black and yellow! Let’s shake it up a little. Barry! Breakfast is ready! Ooming! Hang on a second. Hello? – Barry? – Adam? – Oan you believe this is happening? – I can’t. I’ll pick you up. Looking sharp. Use the stairs. Your father paid good money for those. Sorry. I’m excited. Here’s the graduate. We’re very proud of you, son. A perfect report card, all B’s. Very proud. Ma! I got a thing going here. – You got lint on your fuzz. – Ow! That’s me! – Wave to us! We’ll be in row 118,000. – Bye! Barry, I told you, stop flying in the house! – Hey, Adam. – Hey, Barry. – Is that fuzz gel? – A little. Special day, graduation. Never thought I’d make it. Three days grade school, three days high school. Those were awkward. Three days college. I’m glad I took a day and hitchhiked around the hive. You did come back different. – Hi, Barry. – Artie, growing a mustache? Looks good. – Hear about Frankie? – Yeah. – You going to the funeral? – No, I’m not going. Everybody knows, sting someone, you die. Don’t waste it on a squirrel. Such a hothead. I guess he could have just gotten out of the way. I love this incorporating an amusement park into our day. That’s why we don’t need vacations. Boy, quite a bit of pomp… under the circumstances. – Well, Adam, today we are men. – We are! – Bee-men. – Amen! Hallelujah! Students, faculty, distinguished bees, please welcome Dean Buzzwell. Welcome, New Hive Oity graduating class of… …9:15. That concludes our ceremonies. And begins your career at Honex Industries! Will we pick ourjob today? I heard it’s just orientation. Heads up! Here we go. Keep your hands and antennas inside the tram at all times. – Wonder what it’ll be like? – A little scary. Welcome to Honex, a division of Honesco and a part of the Hexagon Group. This is it! Wow. Wow. We know that you, as a bee, have worked your whole life to get to the point where you can work for your whole life. Honey begins when our valiant Pollen Jocks bring the nectar to the hive. Our top-secret formula is automatically color-corrected, scent-adjusted and bubble-contoured into this soothing sweet syrup with its distinctive golden glow you know as… Honey! – That girl was hot. – She’s my cousin! – She is? – Yes, we’re all cousins. – Right. You’re right. – At Honex, we constantly strive to improve every aspect of bee existence. These bees are stress-testing a new helmet technology. – What do you think he makes? – Not enough. Here we have our latest advancement, the Krelman. – What does that do? – Oatches that little strand of honey that hangs after you pour it. Saves us millions. Oan anyone work on the Krelman? Of course. Most bee jobs are small ones. But bees know that every small job, if it’s done well, means a lot. But choose carefully because you’ll stay in the job you pick for the rest of your life. The same job the rest of your life? I didn’t know that. What’s the difference? You’ll be happy to know that bees, as a species, haven’t had one day off in 27 million years. So you’ll just work us to death? We’ll sure try. Wow! That blew my mind! “What’s the difference?” How can you say that? One job forever? That’s an insane choice to have to make. I’m relieved. Now we only have to make one decision in life. But, Adam, how could they never have told us that? Why would you question anything? We’re bees. We’re the most perfectly functioning society on Earth. You ever think maybe things work a little too well here? Like what? Give me one example. I don’t know. But you know what I’m talking about. Please clear the gate. Royal Nectar Force on approach. Wait a second. Oheck it out. – Hey, those are Pollen Jocks! – Wow. I’ve never seen them this close. They know what it’s like outside the hive. Yeah, but some don’t come back. – Hey, Jocks! – Hi, Jocks! You guys did great! You’re monsters! You’re sky freaks! I love it! I love it! – I wonder where they were. – I don’t know. Their day’s not planned. Outside the hive, flying who knows where, doing who knows what. You can’tjust decide to be a Pollen Jock. You have to be bred for that. Right. Look. That’s more pollen than you and I will see in a lifetime. It’s just a status symbol. Bees make too much of it. Perhaps. Unless you’re wearing it and the ladies see you wearing it. Those ladies? Aren’t they our cousins too? Distant. Distant. Look at these two. – Oouple of Hive Harrys. – Let’s have fun with them. It must be dangerous being a Pollen Jock. Yeah. Once a bear pinned me against a mushroom! He had a paw on my throat, and with the other, he was slapping me! – Oh, my! – I never thought I’d knock him out. What were you doing during this? Trying to alert the authorities. I can autograph that. A little gusty out there today, wasn’t it, comrades? Yeah. Gusty. We’re hitting a sunflower patch six miles from here tomorrow. – Six miles, huh? – Barry! A puddle jump for us, but maybe you’re not up for it. – Maybe I am. – You are not! We’re going 0900 at J-Gate. What do you think, buzzy-boy? Are you bee enough? I might be. It all depends on what 0900 means. Hey, Honex! Dad, you surprised me. You decide what you’re interested in? – Well, there’s a lot of choices. – But you only get one. Do you ever get bored doing the same job every day? Son, let me tell you about stirring. You grab that stick, and you just move it around, and you stir it around. You get yourself into a rhythm. It’s a beautiful thing. You know, Dad, the more I think about it, maybe the honey field just isn’t right for me. You were thinking of what, making balloon animals? That’s a bad job for a guy with a stinger. Janet, your son’s not sure he wants to go into honey! – Barry, you are so funny sometimes. – I’m not trying to be funny. You’re not funny! You’re going into honey. Our son, the stirrer! – You’re gonna be a stirrer? – No one’s listening to me! Wait till you see the sticks I have. I could say anything right now. I’m gonna get an ant tattoo! Let’s open some honey and celebrate! Maybe I’ll pierce my thorax. Shave my antennae. Shack up with a grasshopper. Get a gold tooth and call everybody “dawg”! I’m so proud. – We’re starting work today! – Today’s the day. Oome on! All the good jobs will be gone. Yeah, right. Pollen counting, stunt bee, pouring, stirrer, front desk, hair removal… – Is it still available? – Hang on. Two left! One of them’s yours! Oongratulations! Step to the side. – What’d you get? – Picking crud out. Stellar! Wow! Oouple of newbies? Yes, sir! Our first day! We are ready! Make your choice. – You want to go first? – No, you go. Oh, my. What’s available? Restroom attendant’s open, not for the reason you think. – Any chance of getting the Krelman? – Sure, you’re on. I’m sorry, the Krelman just closed out. Wax monkey’s always open. The Krelman opened up again. What happened? A bee died. Makes an opening. See? He’s dead. Another dead one. Deady. Deadified. Two more dead. Dead from the neck up. Dead from the neck down. That’s life! Oh, this is so hard! Heating, cooling, stunt bee, pourer, stirrer, humming, inspector number seven, lint coordinator, stripe supervisor, mite wrangler. Barry, what do you think I should… Barry? Barry! All right, we’ve got the sunflower patch in quadrant nine… What happened to you? Where are you? – I’m going out. – Out? Out where? – Out there. – Oh, no! I have to, before I go to work for the rest of my life. You’re gonna die! You’re crazy! Hello? Another call coming in. If anyone’s feeling brave, there’s a Korean deli on 83rd that gets their roses today. Hey, guys. – Look at that. – Isn’t that the kid we saw yesterday? Hold it, son, flight deck’s restricted. It’s OK, Lou. We’re gonna take him up. Really? Feeling lucky, are you? Sign here, here. Just initial that. – Thank you. – OK. You got a rain advisory today, and as you all know, bees cannot fly in rain. So be careful. As always, watch your brooms, hockey sticks, dogs, birds, bears and bats. Also, I got a couple of reports of root beer being poured on us. Murphy’s in a home because of it, babbling like a cicada! – That’s awful. – And a reminder for you rookies, bee law number one, absolutely no talking to humans! All right, launch positions! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz! Black and yellow! Hello! You ready for this, hot shot? Yeah. Yeah, bring it on. Wind, check. – Antennae, check. – Nectar pack, check. – Wings, check. – Stinger, check. Scared out of my shorts, check. OK, ladies, let’s move it out! Pound those petunias, you striped stem-suckers! All of you, drain those flowers! Wow! I’m out! I can’t believe I’m out! So blue. I feel so fast and free! Box kite! Wow! Flowers! This is Blue Leader. We have roses visual.”

Herstal stopped unbuttoning Albarino’s shirt, and just sat on his legs, pulling out a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and began slowly putting them on. In this moment, the fury in his voice seemed to fade briefly, the remnants of it cooling into something colder, harder. “So you went to find Johnny the Killer just to see how I killed him.”

“I must admit,” Albarino said with a smile, “your murder process is much more wonderful than the lackluster displays you produce – when you are taking someone’s life, you yourself are a delight to the eyes.”

After putting on his latex gloves, Herstal pulled a ball of metal string from his pocket. He pressed Albarino’s hands against his head, using the string to bound his wrists tightly.

“Piano strings? Really?” Albarino asked, full of interest.

“I don’t intend to use this to hang you and make you dead, if that’s what you’re asking,” Herstal replied. Some part of him actually knew that Albarino probably didn’t even want to struggle at all either. Yet, on one hand, he didn’t want to take the risk. On the other hand, doing things meant that every part of the process must be precise, without mistakes.

“If you tie someone up like that, it will lead to neurosis of the limbs sooner or later. Believe me, I’m a doctor.” Albarino reminded him.

Herstal sneered. “If only you could remember that when you saw how Johnny the Killer tied people up.”

Albarino muttered something under his breath, probably just complaining about his grudge-holding. In any case, he soon became silent, as Herstal drew a knife from a sheath at the back of his belt; the sharp blade flashed a cold light in the darkness, the reflective tail shining on the outer corner of Albarino’s eyes for a moment.

“this novel was first published on GRain Translations Site. If you are not reading here then you are reading on a pirate site.”

There seemed to be a moment when Albarino slightly held his breath. Even if he was indeed a psychopath, this clearly was a conditioned reflex. His eyes still twinkled with a look of fascination, like a university student who was looking at an extremely complex question requiring proof. However, his body still subconsciously tensed up, the most straightforward reaction Herstal had ever seen in him.

Herstal held the knife in his left hand – which was more dexterous than his right; Albarino suddenly realized what a loss it was for the spectator in Elliot’s basement, for him to have killed someone with a knife with his right hand – and nimbly used the tip of the knife to remove the topmost button of Albarino’s shirt.

They listened to the sharp, crisp sound of the metal button rolling into the darkness knocking into something. Herstal whispered, “You appreciate my killing – even when the target is you.”

“Even when the target is me,” Albarino agreed, laughing lightly and gasping for air. After all, Herstal still had a hand pressed against his neck. “Although I really doubt whether you would still do that, seeing that your victims have reached their endings just because you were sure that they didn’t deserve your respect.”

The words trailed off into a light grunt of pain as Herstal released Albarino’s neck, his right hand changing to press against his chest. Then, the tip of the knife slashed downwards from where the button was removed, the sharp blade easily cutting open the fabric of his shirt; the tip slightly cut into the skin as well, creating a long cut.

– It started from the chest, down to the side of the ribs. The place where the knife pierced in was the most shallow, just a small, superficial scratch. As the cut extended, the wound also deepened, the depth of the wound about a centimeter or so when the knife was pulled out.

This depth was just only skin, the fat layer and the capillaries. No one would die because of wounds of this depth, but the abundant nerves always took the responsibility to transmit pain to the brain.

“this novel was first published on GRain Translations Site. If you are not reading here then you are reading on a pirate site.”

Herstal could feel the soft skin of the abdomen tremble frantically beneath his fingers. Blood began to seep out from beneath the fabric like spilled paint.

He used the tip of his knife to pick the scattered pieces of fabric away, the severed edges wet with heavy blood, falling into a pile with a heavy clatter. Herstal could then look directly at the cut, recklessly extending on the skin, dyed orange by the halo of the flames. The edges of the cut would soon gradually redden and swell as blood continued to flow from between the skin, showing an almost black, rich color.

Albarino’s voice was low, sounding a little shaky as he said, “Herstal.”

“Breathtaking.” Herstal replied in a low voice.

Under the pressure of his fingers, Albarino’s heart beat vigorously, still steady under pain and the threat of the blade; this was almost something to be jealous about. He could feel a series of muffled sounds, something akin to mirth vibrating from this chest; then, the next cut of the blade dragged into an intake of breath.

– This was how Herstal cut Albarino’s clothes into pieces and pulled them off him one by one. Of course, at the same time, thin cuts spread across his skin like a spider’s web: most of them were shallow, only beads of blood resembling a coral necklace seeped out from the edge of the wound. They didn’t even need to be stitched.

But those long crimson threads wrapped around him like silk, leaving a gradually swelling redness, an instinct stinging and a pain akin to being penetrated by needles.

In the process, Herstal could feel the suppressed body half-heartedly twist around to struggle. With every move Albarino made, blood was seeping out of his wounds, rubbing it everywhere as Herstal’s hands moved on his chest, like ochre and crimson smeared across the canvas of an oil painting.

Albarino lay beneath him, hands bound and completely naked, looking almost obedient. In a sense, this scene was full of irony: for his skin was covered with cuts, nearly completely coated with fresh and half-dried blood, his penis had gone soft under the pain. Yet, some part of his slightly unfocused green eyes was telling this fact: It was only because of his permission that things went in this direction – it was the delighted glory of the victor.

As such, the Gardener, in the pain caused by Herstal’s fingers rubbing over the wound, even had the leisure to quite usefully point out, “The box of condoms are in the cabinet by the wall.”

His tone could even be described as gentle, even if it was interspersed with gasps of pain, as if Herstal wasn’t squeezing blood out of a slightly deeper wound on his waist.

It was on his way to the box of condoms that Herstal got a real taste of this irony, as the other was, clearly, still planning a strategy on “leaving no traceable DNA”. The bad habit of the Sunday Gardener was trying to extend this game for as infinitely long as possible.

Herstal was careful not to rub the blood from his gloves on the drawer when he opened it. Perhaps the last thing the crime scene investigation team needed to see was the Westland Pianist leaving a bloody handprint on the outside of the drawer which had the condoms.

The lid of the box had been ripped open, but the contents hadn’t been touched at all – which was honestly not surprising; Herstal couldn’t imagine Albarino bringing any of his one-night stands to this house, and he was definitely the type to spend the night at the other’s. This could be inferred from the personal decoration of the house: it was Albarino’s territory, and he really didn’t like any coyotes invading it.

However, if that was the case, why the box was here was a paradox in itself.

Herstal did not want to think too deeply about the meaning behind this – at least not today. He turned to see Albarino lying on the floor, covered in the very faint light from the rainy night outside the window. His chest was heaving, covered in blood from head to toe.

The fire had finally burned down to the embers, with some orange sparks still smoldering in the middle of the black coal. Without the light source, Albarino’s skin looked like a ghastly white corpse in the gray light; Herstal’s night vision was good enough for him to see the red, swelling and twisted scars, like a black net.

“Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.”

Herstal finally knelt down beside him, using his knees to push his legs up and dipping his fingers into the trickling blood, then into his crack between his butt. When his fingers pushed inside, Albarino’s legs trembled violently; his voice was disjointly severed by the dry pain, but there was still something scorching which throbbed in between his sentences.

“I thought you’d think that wearing gloves isn’t intimate enough.” He stumbled over his words.

“Wearing gloves when there’s blood everywhere isn’t a bad idea.” Herstal roughly stretched him out, retorting lightly.

“Is that so? I’m pretty sure you didn’t wear gloves when you removed those victims’ internal organs. If you had to feel the heat inside their body through a layer of latex, there wouldn’t be any point in doing so, right?” Albarino let out a laugh, the intonation of it like the physical representation of pain and heat mixed together.

“Because I’ll clean up the bloody fingerprints left on them afterwards,” Herstal roughly stuffed two fingers inside, feeling the ring of muscle being tense and taut at the base of his fingers, “but I’m not going to do that today.”

Albarino breathlessly let out a laugh: “Because cleaning off the blood would destroy the aesthetic.”

Herstal didn’t answer him, but they both knew Albarino was right.

Then there was a very long silence: a light clang of the knife being placed on the floor, the sound of fabric rubbing against itself, the soft sound of a zipper being pulled opened, and the crisp sound of the plastic packaging being ripped open, incessantly declaring what was going to happen next.

– Then, the burning hot member pressed against his thigh, tentatively rubbing against the entrance. The sticky wet liquid there was without any gentleness; all of it was his blood.

Albarino looked at the other. In fact, there were actually moments when Herstal’s eyes observed him with a nearly distressed look, as if he was pondering why he hadn’t ripped this person apart with a blade.

Some part of this fact still made Albarino want to smile, though he wasn’t sure if he still had the strength to do so at the moment. He, nearly with the last of his strength, lifted up a leg and hooked it onto Hertsal’s waist. When he did any movement, his whole body was in pain from head to toe; he could imagine the miserable scene of these wounds slowly healing.

Although he wasn’t a masochist and couldn’t get hard in this situation, somehow he managed to wedge his leg on Herstal’s waist, suggestively wriggling, using his butt to grind wantonly against the other’s crotch.

The action squeezed a growl out of Herstal’s throat, and then Albarino acquiescently let the other take the initiative – he let the other roughly fuck inside. For a short while, it was difficult to tell which was more painful, between the inadequately prepared entrance and the bleeding wounds on him. Herstal pushed his legs up high, nearly folding Albarino’s body in half, the actions causing more droplets of blood to be squeezed out from the wounds.

The other’s hip bones slammed without mercy into his skin, and his fingers once again clutched against his neck, the blood-soaked tips pressing into the skin. Albarino almost felt like throwing up in the continuous pain; when he reflexively tried to curl up, Herstal forcefully restrained him by the neck, pinning him to the floor as roughly as if he were prying a clam open.

By no means did this feel “good,” even for the Sunday Gardener, but it tasted almost like victory; for there was something in Herstal Armalight’s eyes, something he had hidden under a heavy mask of lead, that was finally flowing out from a vast, irreparable crack.

That was the nature of a beast; a pure, metallic sweetness belonging to evil.

Albarino’s fingers weakly scratched across the floor, feeling Herstal reaching out for that knife next to him somewhere. The posture he held the handle with was even elegant.

When Herstal forcefully slammed into his body, the knife cut into his skin – deeper than all the ones before, even forcefully making Albarino release a hoarse scream from his throat; his tense opening, convulsing under the pain, caused Herstal to curse lowly. It was like a hot knife stabbing into butter, the sizzling, bubbling soft edges overflowing with blood.

That wound was controlled and prepared, starting at the lower edge of his rib cage, straight down and long, stopping precisely somewhere on his abdomen.

“My guess is, you definitely prepared a brand,” Albarino said in a low, unclear voice, probably due to excess pain or blood loss.

“Yes, indeed,” Herstal replied, while sizing up the other’s sideburns soaked with sweat and blood, to the point of sticking to his deathly pale forehead.

“Est omnis rerum sed galisum asperiores qui explicabo nostrum. Aut officiis omnis et quae nostrum ex omnis voluptatem qui repellendus sequi et illo impedit. Et ipsa suscipit et temporibus explicabo aut aspernatur distinctio sit internos optio non porro quia aut quaerat vitae.

Qui sunt quaerat in ipsum internos eum repudiandae alias ex ipsum provident. Ut dolore possimus eum sunt minima et consequuntur omnis. Eum laborum asperiores cum libero quod ut magnam ratione est facere commodi aut facere quod. Ea consequuntur voluptates et aliquid asperiores qui quia tenetur aut exercitationem internos.”

“Then ‘Psychopath’ might be a bit too long a word.” Albarino seemingly let out a light laugh, but he was trembling. There was still fresh blood seeping out and down the edges of the wounds when his chest heaved.

Herstal knew that these wounds would be with him for a while. Then, the pain he felt every time he made an overly big movement would remind him of their presence. With proper care, most of them would heal well, and only some of the deepest ones would leave thin, ivory-white scars.

Just like the one he was about to leave on Albarino’s abdomen – in his own words – a “brand”.

So Herstal slowly fucked him while carving a second cut into his abdomen.

Author’s Note: all love-hate cps will get the BGM of super psycho love.

Translated by: GRain

Proofread by: REI

(T/N: sorry for taking so long, irl can suck my ass, or Albarino’s dick as from this chapter.

To people who are not reading this on my site or reposting without permission, graintrans.wordpress, I hope you get murdered by Herstal instead of Albarino because the method Herstal kills people is more painful. I think Albarino will decorate your body look better tho.)

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