Chapter 137

• Mason
• Watching King work usually makes me a bit ill. The way he seems to find a rhythm in destruction, precision in pain—it's more than most people can stomach. But tonight, as I stand in the dim light of the garage, I see something else.
• It's not just brutality. It's art, if you can call it that. Every shallow slice he carves into Phillips' chest, every muffled scream and whimper, feels deliberate, like King's sketching a portrait of suffering.