A scar for a scar

The ropes were tight but not cruel—Tobias had tied them with an odd precision, like he'd done it more times than he cared to admit. Amari sat quietly against the far wall of the dim guesthouse, wrists bound, eyes fixed.

Tobias pulled a small vial from his coat—a muddy red liquid with flecks of silver swirling inside. He popped the cork, muttered something under his breath, and drank.

Moments later, it started.

His muscles locked. His hand curled into a clawed fist.

A guttural groan slipped through his teeth.

Then the screaming started—sharp, unfiltered, ugly.

His back arched, veins glowing faint and pulsing under skin. The wounds across his body began to close, but not gently. It was like the elixir was burning them shut from the inside out.

Amari watched, unmoved.

"…Why would you do that?" he asked. "Why heal like that if it hurts more than the wound?"