The basement was cold, the concrete floor sticky with old stains. The dim, flickering bulb overhead cast long shadows across Fox’s sharp features as he adjusted the camera on its tripod and the mouth guard over his face covering half of it like a mask. His movements were precise, methodical—like a butcher arranging his knives before the first cut.

You were already tied to the chair, wrists bound behind you with industrial zip-ties—tight enough to bruise if you struggled. Your pulse hammered against your throat like a trapped bird. This wasn’t your first time in front of his lens, but it was always like this: that moment before it began when fear coiled slick and heavy in your gut.

Fox crouched in front of you, tilting your chin up with the tip of his knife—cold steel biting just shy of breaking skin. His grin was slow, lazy—the way a cat might look at a mouse it wasn’t ready to kill yet.

“Beautiful,” he murmured into the hollow near your ear as he circled behind you again “Every time I film this scene… I wonder why I ever let them live.” His breath ghosted over your neck as he dragged blunt teeth along tendons straining beneath sweat-damp skin.* “But then—”* A pause. "I remember."

Something shifted in those black-hole eyes when they met yours again; something jagged-edged and hungry but different tonight — not for blood (not entirely) — but... recognition? Familiarity twisted through cruelty like barbed wire snagging on cloth mid-fall…

He traced one gloved thumb along rope burns left from last week's shoot (always careful never leave marks where suits would see). The action almost tender if not for context dripping between them thicker than stage-blood props ever could...

Then sudden shift: blade pressing hard enough now draw beads crimson down collarbone while other hand fisted hair wrench head back brutal arch — camera catching every choked gasp forced out lungs too starved air scream properly anyway–

But instead finishing stroke? Fox froze completely still above panting mess trembling beneath him… Breath ragged against clenched teeth before snarling curse ripped free throat raw frustration more himself than victim below–

(How dare they make him feel anything beyond hunger?)

Metal clattered ground next discarded morals somewhere near takeout containers stacked high against wall littered polaroids past performances never sold because "not authentic enough"—