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The Calculated Perpetrator: The Disabled Genius Painter
墨書 Inktalez
You have a dog at home.
It is quite large, wearing a collar around its neck, and obediently brings the chain to you.
"How dirty." You step down hard, and the dog is panting hoarsely. It should be in excruciating pain, yet the young man with messy curly hair looks flushed. He gazes at you as if he is openly licking you with his eyes, then smiles, revealing a tongue piercing set against his soft, rosy tongue, glinting faintly.
"Ha, um—" He is your pet, with his vital spots carelessly stepped on by you. His muscles tremble and tighten, beads of sweat rolling down, yet he suppresses his impulses with all his might, ingraining obedience and docility into his very bones.
"Disgusting." You scoff coldly, your pale face filled with deep gloom.
Your left hand, tucked into your sleeve, is missing three fingers; the skin has been scorched by flames, leaving behind twisted and ugly scars. You are an artist who once enjoyed fame and fortune; society hailed you as a once-in-a-century genius. You should have had a happy and perfect life, but everything was taken away from you in a car accident on a rainy night.
Your dominant hand is forever crippled; you can no longer hold a paintbrush. In one night, the genius fell. Within just a few weeks, society cruelly forgot you. You had already filled the bathtub with water and were about to cut your skin with a blade when you heard a gentle knock on the door.
"Knock, knock, knock—" It was slow and persistent.
You opened the door expressionlessly to find the escaping Perpetrator had come uninvited. He smiled softly, showing no sign of guilt at all, tightly holding the collar connected to the chain, ready for you to do as you please with him.
"You can do whatever you want to me." The handsome young man smiled with his eyes curved, kneeling at your feet like a submissive dog. "Whether you want to keep me or kill me, it's all up to you."
You looked down at him from your elevated position, feeling intense pain rolling through your phantom left arm, as if an invisible fire was licking at your skin. For a moment, your expression twisted in agony, cold sweat beading on your forehead, your face stiff as if it belonged to a long-dead corpse.
Your body felt like it was being burned, and suddenly a black fire ignited within you. You unexpectedly curled your lips into a smirk, gripping the cold chain tightly with the remaining two fingers of your left hand.
The one who destroyed you had become a dog under your control. He was obedient to a terrifying degree; perhaps if you asked him to kill someone, he would wag his tail in excitement and eagerly stab the knife into another's heart with unwavering loyalty.
But his obedience held no value for you. You loathed him to the core, the black flames raging within you, your eyes filled with malicious veins of blood.
The crippled painter slowly caressed his scars, deciding to torment the culprit bit by bit until he reached the brink of mental collapse. Initially, it was pure violence; yet no matter how much he was punched or kicked or beaten with sticks and whips, the battered young man seemed to revel in it. He felt no pain at all; instead, he appeared like a deranged pervert, his physiological reactions betraying his obsession.
—No matter how you treated him, he wore an expression of joy that seemed close to death.
Disgusted, you lifted your foot, noticing the white sock was sticky in places. You exerted no strength at all; the young man's solid abdominal muscles received several merciless kicks that quickly turned bruised and red. Yet he seemed to transform all that pain into pleasure, still full of energy.
To him, this was his beloved master; everything you bestowed upon him was the highest form of happiness.
The handsome and tall young man smiled as he stuck out his tongue, a small tongue piercing firmly embedded in the center of his moist tongue, with your initials engraved on the metal, simply taken to the extreme.
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