Primitive.
A steadfast grip wraps around knife, it WAITS, patient. A predator on the prowl. Admiration could be given, of course, where it is due with respect. So many would find the prospect of this man FEARFUL, feeling only dread as slow steps were taken toward their proximity. But not him. What was felt was only a morbid curiosity. What sort of mind could lie beneath that SKULL?

Body is still; for what purpose has he to be afraid? This body could not be damaged by something so SIMPLISTIC as a kitchen’s knife. Digits at his side twitch, footsteps counted. Three, four, five– until he can feel body looming over him, swallowed in the shadow of this starved killer.
‘ What are you waiting for.’
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