CONT. @haelinghands
Michael, scarcely literate in English, to say nothing of any other language, would not have been able to parse what she had said in her shaking voice.
But regardless, he did stop.
His bloodied knife was raised, the blade catching dim light through the blood smeared across its surface. The killer’s passive, emotionless mask betrayed nothing- no feeling, no pity. As if he were a wicked golem of flesh and bone and hate, created only to bring death and despair to anyone luckless enough to encounter him.
But- his slowly lowering knife told a different story. He could not have placed it if he tried, but a feeling was filling up his chest and his stomach, cutting through the fog around his mind and allowing him some lucidity.
Crying. The woman trembling on the ground was crying.
His arms rested now at his sides, and still he didn’t move- neither to approach or walk away. It was only when he slowly canted his head to one side that it was clear he wasn’t simply in a trance. The killer lifted his free hand to his masked face, gesturing vaguely toward the edge of his eye and down his cheek- whether it was simply mimicry, or some manner of commentary remained unclear, but despite the evil crashing restlessly against the inner walls of his mind, his knife remained lowered to his side.
For now, it was only Michael.