“I am aware exactly how loyal you are.” said Mister N. reaching into the breast pocket of his five thousand dollar jacket. The price didn’t matter half as much as the image, the fit and the feel. He withdrew a pen whose casing was a deeper black than the fingers that cradled it.

Jacob whimpered.

Slowly, the mobster twisted off the cap in tiny precise turns. Light rolled off the shapely contours of the pen’s body, near the end it caught on the steel nib making it shine like a scalpel. Mr. N. moved with slow deliberate steps until he stood in front of the trapped man.

Jacob stared at the pen, his eyes growing wide. “No! Wait, I can-”

Mr. N’s knuckles tightened. With one sharp movement, he jerked it toward Jacob’s face. The pen sank into his cheek easily, like a spoon into butter and Jacob howled, straining against the two men who held his arms.

“Shh. I know it hurts but you should glorify in this pain. It lets you know you’re still alive—and what’s a cheek wound or two compared to losing, say, an eye.”