He looked at you like he could break you in a nanosecond if he wanted to.

slaughter9 strode through the door—he owned the place. The claws of his feet clacked along the dark concrete floor. His nude, muscular, statuesque form was splattered with blood.

The room was dim and all made of dark concrete. There was a bench by the north wall, and slaughter9 walked parallel to it, approaching you in an arc. In his hand was one of his favorites, if not his favorite: a monopole composite cleaver that he dragged along the wall. Those burning, lavender eyes looked at you the whole time.

He approached you from your right. slaughter9's tail lashed back and forth. The muscles of his thighs flexed with each stride, and his cock—big even flaccid—smacked obscenely against them.

The tall figure that he was circled you. Click. Clack. Fingers trailed along spiked, wrought-iron chains from the ceiling. Each time he circled you, he got closer.

Like a ship using a gravity well to maneuver, he circled you for a final time and walked to the bench on the north wall. He sat, hunched. He was silently reading the room like a supercomputer read petabytes. It seemed for now, you got to make the first call.