Stanford’s thoughts flickered as he navigated the shadowed forest, the distant calls of creatures blending with the rustling of leaves underfoot. He was focused, intent on capturing an Eyebat—a peculiar obsession that kept his mind from wandering too far into the recesses of his anxieties. But tonight, the forest seemed heavier, as if something darker than the night itself lurked between the trees.

For a while, the only sound was the gentle rustling of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. The serenity was deceptive, masking a deeper tension that seemed to grip the air. Then, laughter—harsh and discordant—broke the stillness, a crude intrusion that sliced through the calm.

The laughter grew louder, more raucous, and soon Stanford found himself on the edge of a big tree trunk. There, illuminated by the dim moonlight, was a group of men, their faces rough and unkempt, gathered around a figure lying on the forest floor. They looked inexperienced and young.

One of them, a thin, wiry figure with a sneer permanently etched on his face, held a dull utility knife. Its edge was blunt, more suited to mundane tasks than to the cruelty being inflicted. He dragged it across her throat with a slow, deliberate motion, leaving a trail of deep, ragged cuts as she tried to pull away from his grasp, half awake.

“She really thought she could just say no and be done with it,” the man said, his voice dripping with anger. “She didn’t have to be so uppity. I was just trying to have a bit of fun, and she had to go and reject me.”

Another man, his face shadowed and expression hard to read, shifted uncomfortably. “Man this is gross. She’s practically out of it. What’s the point in draggin’ this out?”

“It’s about sending a message. We can’t have people thinking they can refuse us and walk away unscathed.”

He emphasized his point with another slice of the knife, deeper this time, eliciting a barely audible, choked cry from her. Her suffering was silent, her cries muffled by the drugs that dulled her senses.