**Mercy in Darkness**

It's obvious the girl is dying. He's known since they all trudged out of that room, listening to her footsteps dragging behind, the faint shivers of pain that sneak into every other breath. He'd watched her at their last dinner, her cracked lips barely parting as she tried and failed to take a bite. Her paling, clammy skin, the sluggishly hidden veil of agony clouding her eyes, the thick and persistent stench of fresh blood. When he approaches her bed, he thinks about that. Bleeding to death is a slow and agonizing death. Already, it's been too long to avoid much of the torture of it. Her body would already be going into shock. Heart lurching in the chest, constricting, dread flooding the system as every fleshy bit of tissue starves and grays. He heard their conversation, her slurring words, her desperate search for comfort as she plummets towards the dark. As he walks, a swift list of affirmations go through his mind, declarations and justifications: He's going to kill her. He's just going to kill her. Not to be cruel. Not to enjoy it. To offer mercy. To end this fast. To win. To live. The sound of her whimpers makes him stop. Sang-woo stares at her limp, sweating body. His eyes focus on her heaving chest, the spreading mass of scarlet just below it, soaking into her suit. "She's lost a lot of blood!" Gi-hun screams behind him. He hadn't noticed him rising up with knife in hand, too preoccupied by his frantic and pathetic delusion of hope. She hasn't noticed either. She's already lost to the world, fading faster by the second, bleeding and bleeding. He raises his knife. "Somebody get in here!" A stab through the ribs would get rid of her quick. A blade to the heart, an end to her suffering. Her chest rises and shudders and falls again. There's a badly injured girl-- A tear drop trails down her cheek like a caress, gracing her jaw, dragging down her neck and pooling in the soft dip of her throat. He swallows. "Is anybody out there!?" He crouches beside her, getting close. Her mussed hair is so soft, her face reaching a tragic, listless calm. Another hiccup leaves her, roughened and weak. Her chest heaves again, small breasts just barely pressing against the fabric of her shirt. He reaches out before he can stop himself, placing a hand over her failing, fluttering heart. The room fills with a banging sound, almost as loud as the roar of his pulse rushing through his ears. His shaking hand travels down, cups her breast, squeezes once. A visceral feeling of filth flashes through him and he pulls away, soft exhale leaving him, a violent tingling humming through his fingers like he'd just brushed against a bolt of electricity. It's the same awful, satisfying rush. Something dark and ugly that sits at his gut and revels the chilling thrill of victory, the shattering crash of glass, the scrabble of dirt under his fingers as he grabs for a handful of cool pebbles. He doesn't want it like he doesn't want to kill, but he does it anyway, limbs twitching into motion like he's been possessed. His hand lowers and presses slowly into the wound at her side. Her eyes fly open, roll up, and she chokes quietly on the pain of it, too quietly to be heard over Gi-hun's frantic screaming. His fingers search the area and within seconds he finds a way under her dress shirt, thumb finding the wound, pressing and pushing, sinking inside of her. Sae-byeok gapes like she's underwater. She arches like she's being fucked; a moan leaves her and his cock throbs, wild heat stabbing through him. Fucking idiot. They'd gathered them up to slaughter them like pigs, they wouldn't come to help them now. There is no saving her from this. From anything. From what he's about to do. Sang-woo clenches his jaw. There's not much time, he knows that. Knows his justifications are bleeding from him faster than the life is from her. It's not about cruelty or the lack of it anymore. This is sadism. Pleasure. This is the result of her intense eyes following him through every room, her lithe body brushing past his, her beautiful, plump lips and sharp tongue that licked frustration and unfamiliar desire into him with every foul, irritating word she'd spoken. He really should have pulled her aside when he had the chance, if it was going to end like this. Embraced his decaying morals sooner, bent her over, tasted her cunt and had his fill. She was scrawny, trying to be tough, but there's no muscle on her; she would have been easy enough to hold down, and he's sure she had to be tight, sure she had to be a virgin, unused to the selfish touch of a man. But it's not too late. "You need her alive if you want her in the next round!" the idiot screams. With that reminder he leans in, places his mouth on hers, tastes that fallen tear with a low, barely audible groan. He palms himself fast with the hand not holding the knife. The other hand preoccupies herself with her wound, fingers dipping in deep like he's fingering her, like he's getting her ready. There aren't words to describe the noises that leave her, filled with a twisted and gutteral pain but faint and distant like a song on a faraway radio. Her own hands twitch like she wants to push him away, but she doesn't stop him, and her insides welcomes him in, twitching, pulsing, sticky and slick and so fucking hot. Her tongue traces the trek of that first dreadful tear, dragging upwards, finding her lips. He kisses her hard, consuming her last few breaths, swallowing down every disoriented whimper of pain. If she's aware of what's happening to her, she barely reacts to it. He doesn't know if he prefers that, if he wishes she'd struggle, if he wants her to fight for her life and try to survive. He's too concerned with the slip of her organs around his fingers, the blood burbling under his palm, the careful grip he still holds on his weapon as he rushes through a few sloppy thrusts. He palms himself faster. He's already close. It's almost pathetic how fast he's approaching the edge, like his own nerves are rebelling against him, fighting to banish the violent desire suddenly housed inside of him. He's close, so close, so close. His hand rips from her gushing stomach, flies to her throat. In one quick motion, he slashes it through. If she makes a sound, he can't hear it under the sudden assault to his senses. His own eyes roll, his whole body shudders, fire rushing through his veins and blanking every thought. Then, warmth soaks into his pants and he is nothing again. He shivers again, lets out a soft gasp against her lips. Swallows the blood that's spurting into his mouth, blinking as it continues to spatter over his face, his collar, his shirt. Sae-byeok trembles, seizes, beautiful, grotesque. She dies and Sang-woo feels nothing. "Somebody out there, please, answer me--" He licks his lips clean, wipes his face, gets to his feet. Feels nothing. Blood dries on his skin, air rattling in his lungs. Gi-hun sobs in the background. The lights turn on. The alarms start to blare. He waits for the guilt, the remorse, and he feels fucking nothing at all.