The car rolled to a slow, deliberate stop in the heart of the forest. No streetlights reached here; only the pale, indifferent glow of the full moon filtered through the dense canopy of pine and fir, casting long, skeletal shadows across the wet blacktop.
Rain had eased to a fine, persistent mist that clung to everything like cold breath. The night air was sharp—bitterly cold, the kind that seeped straight into the lungs and made every inhale feel like swallowing glass. Taoko killed the engine.
Silence rushed in, broken only by the distant drip of water from overloaded branches and the occasional rustle of something small moving through the underbrush.
He stepped out first. The cold hit him immediately—sharp enough to draw a quick shiver down his spine. He exhaled slowly, watching his breath plume white in the moonlight. The forest smelled of wet earth, pine resin, and something faintly metallic underneath, like old coins left in the rain.
Taoko circled to the passenger side. Jerry lay slumped against the seatbelt, head lolled forward, mouth slightly open, completely unconscious from the sedative-laced coffee.
Taoko unbuckled him without ceremony, gripped the collar of his jacket, and dragged him out. Jerry's body hit the muddy ground with a heavy, wet thud—legs folding awkwardly, face smearing across the slick earth.
Rainwater pooled instantly around him, soaking through his clothes. Taoko didn't pause. He closed the door softly, then bent down, hooked his hands under Jerry's armpits, and began dragging him deeper into the trees.
The ground was uneven—roots snaking across the path, puddles reflecting fractured moonlight.
Jerry's shirt tore at the shoulder as it snagged on a jagged branch; shallow cuts opened on his cheek and forehead from dragging over sharp stones and broken twigs. His head bounced limply with each pull. Taoko moved methodically, breath steady, expression blank.
After about fifty meters, a small wooden hut emerged from the darkness—ramshackle, half-rotted planks, moss clinging to the roof like green fur. Moonlight glinted off a rusty padlock that Taoko had left unlocked. He dropped Jerry to the ground again, pushed the door open with his foot, then grabbed the collar once more and hauled him inside.
The interior reeked—rotting flesh, old blood, iron, and mildew so thick it coated the back of the throat. Breathing felt heavy, almost impossible.
Bloodstains darkened the walls in long, irregular smears; dried crimson handprints marked the doorframe like failed escapes. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, but Taoko didn't turn it on. Moonlight leaking through cracks in the boards was enough—cold, silver, unforgiving.
He maneuvered Jerry into a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor. Leather restraints snapped shut around wrists and ankles with practiced clicks. Jerry's head lolled forward, still out cold.
Taoko stepped into a small side room. He pulled on a plain surgical mask—white, pristine against the filth—and picked up a thick yellow sponge and a fresh red apple from a shelf.
He returned, set the sponge on a scarred wooden table, then dragged another chair directly in front of Jerry's and sat, facing him. He lit a cigarette with a soft flick of a lighter. The ember glowed orange in the dimness; smoke curled lazily upward.
He took a long drag, exhaled slowly through his nose, then flicked cold water from the bucket he'd filled outside—straight into Jerry's face.
Jerry jolted awake with a choked gasp. His eyes flew open, wide and panicked. The icy water shocked his system; he coughed, sputtered, then froze as reality crashed in.
Taoko sat calmly across from him, cigarette dangling from his lips, moonlit smoke drifting between them.
Jerry's gaze darted—blood-smeared walls, tray of gleaming surgical tools (scalpels, bone saws, a small hammer), the restraints biting into his skin.
"Sir…?" Jerry's voice cracked, hoarse from the sedative and fear. "What… what is this? Where the hell am I?"
Taoko tilted his head slightly, studying him like a disappointing assignment.
"You never learn your lesson, do you?" His voice was flat—cold as the night outside, emotionless, precise. No anger, no pity. Just fact.
Jerry's breathing quickened. "But… but why? You always said violence is bad. You taught us that. You can't—"
Taoko's hand cracked across Jerry's face—open palm, hard enough to snap his head sideways. Blood bloomed on Jerry's lip; his front teeth wobbled loose.
"Keep your voice low when you speak to me," Taoko said, tone unchanged—ice over steel. "Your generation is soft. Trusting. Stupid. So now I'm going to correct that."
He reached for a thin, curved skinning blade from the tray.
Jerry's eyes widened in terror. "No—no, wait! You can't do this! Help! Somebody help me!"
He thrashed against the restraints, chair rattling. His voice rose to a raw scream.
Taoko didn't flinch. "Don't shout. The nearest village is a hundred and forty-five kilometers away. Keep screaming like that and you'll just attract black bears. They like easy meals."
Jerry's panic spiraled. "No—no! I'll scream as long as I want! You can't—HELP! SOMEBODY—!
In one fluid motion, Taoko pressed the blade to Jerry's right index finger and peeled the skin upward in a single, clean strip—nail and all. The nail popped free with a wet snap. Blood welled instantly.
Jerry's scream shattered the air—high, animal, throat-tearing. His vocal cords shredded on the second note; the sound collapsed into a wet, broken gurgle.
Taoko continued methodically—peeling skin from each finger in turn, ripping nails with precise twists. Jerry's body convulsed; tears streamed down his face, mixing with blood and rainwater. Low, wheezing moans escaped his ruined throat—agony without volume.
When both hands were raw, glistening meat, Taoko set the blade aside and picked up the sponge.
"You're lucky," he said quietly, almost conversationally. "You're the only one getting a painless death from me. I never planned to be merciful."
Jerry's eyes—wild, pleading—locked on him.
"This chair? Electric. I studied the method.
Quick. Clean." Taoko's voice stayed dead-level, no inflection. "First the sponge."
He tried to place the dry sponge on Jerry's head. Jerry jerked violently side to side, refusing.
Taoko sighed—tiny, impatient—then drove the knife deep into Jerry's left thigh. Muscle parted; blood poured. Jerry's body arched in silent scream, damaged cords producing only a high, keening wheeze.
"For your own good," Taoko murmured. "As your teacher, I have a responsibility. You still haven't learned. Obey."
He wedged the sponge firmly onto Jerry's head, then attached the metal cap and straps, tightening until they bit skin.
Taoko stepped back, pulled a small camera from his pocket, set it on the table, and pressed record. Red light blinked.
"One… two… three."
He flipped the switch.
Electricity surged. Jerry's body locked rigid—every muscle seizing at once. Sparks danced along the dry sponge; smoke rose in thin curls. The chair groaned under the strain.
Jerry's eyes bulged, whites showing all around; his mouth stretched in a soundless howl. Current flowed for five full minutes—longer than intended. Skin blistered black. Hair singed. The smell of cooked meat mixed with ozone and burning hair.
The chair finally shorted—wires melting, frame warping. Jerry slumped forward, half-cooked, lifeless, steam rising from his scalp in the cold air.
Taoko stared for a long moment.
"Hmm. Forgot to soak the sponge properly."
He shrugged. "My bad. But I think he died painless." A soft chuckle escaped—almost amused. "Did anyone ever see a teacher care this much for his students?"
He switched off the camera, gathered his tools, and walked out of the hut without looking back.
The forest welcomed him—cold, quiet, moon still hanging high and indifferent. Mist curled around his ankles as he returned to the car. He slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and flicked on the radio.
A blistering fire-metal track roared to life—heavy guitars, pounding drums, screamed vocals. Taoko turned the volume up until the bass vibrated through his chest.
He pulled back onto the dark road, headlights cutting twin tunnels through the night. One hand on the wheel, the other tapping the rhythm on the dash.
His face relaxed—almost serene again. The cold, the blood, the screams—all gone. Just the music, the road, and the moon watching from above.
He drove on, humming along to the chorus, already thinking about tomorrow's quiet day.