With the lift of my finger, the atoms in his right hand start to shift ever-so-slightly as his fingers stretch out of their own accord. He’s twitching now, his throat rapidly trying to avoid swallowing anymore of his own blood. I take note of his stomach churning and starting to convulse. I stop the roiling muscles with a firm direction of my thoughts. I wouldn’t have him dying due to suffocation.

His arms, chained to desk as they are, cannot move to avoid my attack. His fingers are already much past the point of their normal movement. He screams through gritted teeth and forced lips as the pinkie finger first cracks, then becomes wildly out of joint. The forefinger, then the ring finger… they all follow suit. Soon his hand resembles a marionette doll; it’s a nub held by five finger-like strings. The skin is already discolored.

“Where is your boss,” I ask casually. A telekinetic attack like this barely strains my thought process at all. My voice is a smooth as silk.

“You still have another hand, Red.”