The Art of Dying

The first drop of blood hit the marble with a sound like a struck bell. Then another. And another. Ru watched, rapt, as crimson pooled around the sleepwalker's feet.

The sleepwalker neither blinked nor collapsed. Only their head hung grotesquely, as if suspended from an invisible hook. Now they looked like a white statue stained with blood.

The door to the chamber stretched open behind them, leading not into darkness but into nothingness. A complete black that seemed to absorb all light.

It's color of black was truly flawless.

Ru turned to the remaining sleepwalkers, his grin widening as they erupted in a single, synchronized clap. The sound was deafening in the stillness. Had he earned points? he wondered idly. Did it matter?

He stepped forward, trailing fingers along his dagger before holding it up like a maestro's baton. The steel glinted, still wet.

"Who's next?" he sang, sweet as poisoned honey.

The sleepwalkers' applause stuttered.