Like it was tasting the shape of his soul through his pores like a sommelier sampling blood instead of wine, savoring the vintage of his fear.
The needles moved.
He felt them crawl—sliding across his skin in patterns that made no sense, spiraling around his throat like a noose of invisible silk, pressing harder at his pulse points until he could feel his own heartbeat stuttering against them, lingering over his heart like they were counting the beats to decide if it was worth letting it continue.
Testing for weakness. Searching for the soft places where a blade could slip in and twist without resistance.
What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck—
His breath came back in a ragged gasp that sounded like tearing paper.
And that's when he felt the eyes.
Not one pair.
Not ten.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Tens of thousands.
Watching from every shadow, every stone, every blade of grass that suddenly looked too sharp, too still, too hungry.
They weren't human eyes.
