“You might be a killing machine, demon”—a sad smile forms on her lips as she reaches inside her nightstand drawer—“but you are not unfeeling. In fact, I think you feel too much and too strongly, and because of that, you found a way to suppress your emotions.” “I’m afraid you’re wrong, cub.” Narrowing my eyes, I wonder why she has pulled out the small manicure scissors. “Am I?” she asks. And then, she plunges the sharp tip of the scissors into the middle of her left palm. “Jesus fuck!”
