(a rather gruesome) assassination part 2

Kian exited the room, made a left turn in the hallway and drew open the door to the kitchen, only to find himself in the sights of a group of guards. Their shouts for reinforcements pierced the mansion's silence, a call that Kian knew he had to silence swiftly to preserve his remnants of stealth. In a singular fluid motion, he hurled his machete, its blade spinning and whistling through the air, embedding itself into the face of the first guard. The man’s cries for reinforcements were abruptly ended, his body crumpling to the ground as a grotesque mask of flesh and blood marked his demise. Without a trace of hesitation, Kian's gaze focused on a kettle upon a stove, steam billowing from its spout. He snatched it and pressed the scalding metal against the second guard’s face. The guard's excruciating howls filled the kitchen. A smile blossomed on his face hearing the beautiful melody of agony and suffering, as his skin sizzled and fused to the kettle; it was a grin of twisted glee, of a sinister enjoyment. With a ruthless shove, Kian slammed the man's head against the hard kitchen surface, leaving him lifeless. A third guard charged Kian with nothing but fury and a rather intimidating milk carton. In the few split seconds awarded to him, Kian hurled a glass bottle of olive oil, from the counter, at the charging Russian. The charge, blinded by rage and now liquid fat, met Kian’s sidestep, sending him crashing onto the oven stove with a harrowing thud. The air was filled with the sickening sizzle of skin beginning to cook. A second later, the screaming began; his screams tore through the room. The flames eagerly embraced him, hungrily licking at his oil-soaked uniform, which caught fire with a sinister whoosh. The fabric melted into his skin, welded by the merciless flames. The guard flailed desperately but the attempts only fueled the inferno, his movements fanning the flames as they feasted upon him. The smell of burning flesh caked the air, a thick, choking aroma that settled heavily in Kian’s lungs. His eyes, wide with the rawest form of fear, his body subjected to pain as the fire charred his flesh to the bone. Within moments, what was once a man was reduced to a writhing, scorched figure, barely a humanoid figure. After around 15 seconds, his cries subsided, leaving behind only the crackling of the remaining fat and muscle. As the flames died down, what remained was not a man but a charred husk, as the fire claimed him entirely. Kian pondered on how similar the body looked like an overcooked chicken. 

Kian quickly turned his anger towards the fourth guard, wielding a frying pan. A single blow to the head rendered the man momentarily incapacitated as he collapsed to the floor. Meanwhile, Kian retrieved a kitchen knife and it found its home in the belly of a fifth guard, its sharp edge carving through flesh and organs. The man attempted a feeble escape, dragging his eviscerated form across the floor, only for Kian to deliver a crushing stomp to his head, grinding it into the blood-stained ground. The sound of skull against tile emitted a horrifying crunch, reminiscent of biting into a crisp apple. The fourth guard, fueled by a surge of adrenaline, staggered to his feet, only to be met with a punch to the face that sent him reeling, dropping to his knees in submission. As the subdued guard knelt before him, defeated and gasping for breath, Kian seized an empty glass wine-bottle. The guard's eyes widened in fear. It was a look containing a silent plea for mercy but was ignored by Kian. Kian turned to the left and smashed the bottom of the bottle on the corner of a marble tabletop; it shattered easily, only leaving the top half of the bottle, the bottom adorned with ragged shards of glass. Pivoting back round to face the guard, he forced the mouth of the bottle between the guard's quivering lips, the jagged edge kissing the tender flesh of tongue. With a savage thrust, he rammed the bottle deeper, the glass crunching sickeningly as it shattered against teeth and gum, splinters embedding themselves into the soft tissue of the Russian throat and slicing through the flesh within. The guard's attempts to scream were muffled but could still be recognised. It was a shrill scream, of pure suffering, torture. his body convulsed, fighting to breathe through his mutilated throat. Blood, thick and dark, bubbled up over the shattered glass, spilling over his lips and staining the floor beneath him. It was a crimson waterfall, cascading down his chin. The glass shards tore through muscle and sinew, carving his throat, lacerating tissue. As Kian twisted the bottle, it ground the glass deeper. The guard's body spasmed, as the glass tore him apart from the inside. As the guard's life ebbed away, his body slumped to the ground. A silent scream was etched on his mutilated face, one that entertained Kian.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm but bloody hell this is turning into a massacre! This isn't call of duty, you need to remember this is a STEALTH mission. I suggest you dial back the torture and actually focus on, I don't know, the bloody assassination! Because you've absolutely mangled their faces, I can't scan their faces to see if any of them was Ivan. I assume I will be able to access their CCTV footage though. I'm going to need your physical appendages; plug my firestick in that laptop on the table.”

Kian followed the instructions silently, reaching into his left trouser pocket, pulling out the firestick and slotting it into the computer. 

“Jolly good, that’ll only take me a second. Done! He appears to be upstairs in a bedroom. He only has one guard present, the silly git. If you follow the hallway you are already familiar with, it'll guide you to the stairs. Once there, follow it up and enter the first room on the right.”

Before leaving the room, he grabbed a blowtorch from a toolbox. He followed C.R.U.M.P.E.T's instructions until he reached the door to Ivan.

Kian burst into the room. The hiss of the ignited blowtorch filled the room, as he aimed its blue flame directly at the guard's face. The guard's eyes barely had time to widen in terror before the intense heat engulfed him, the flame hungrily consumed flesh and hair in an instant. Skin blistered and popped under the unrelenting heat, melting away to reveal the raw, tender flesh beneath. The guard's screams were muffled by Kian’s laughs. As his lips charred and distorted and fused together, the cries of anguish subsided, but were still present. The guards flesh twisted and blackened from the blowtorches malvelolent embrace. The smell of burning hair and skin clung to the air. The guard's eyebrows and lashes singed off in almost an instant, leaving his eyes exposed to the flame. The intense heat caused the fluids within them to boil, and the eyes themselves began to cloud and rupture. The guard's hands flailed, reaching up in a vain attempt to shield his face, but the flames licked at the skin on his fingers, curling, retracting grotesquely. As Kian withdrew the blowtorch, what remained of the guard's face was basically unrecognisable - a ghastly mess of charred flesh. The pain still lingered with him, a pain so profound, so consuming that his cries turned into a gurgling whimper, the sound of a soul trapped in a carcass. The guard finally collapsed to the cold wooden floor, his body convulsing, twitching, and writhing on the ground as death began to take hold. Kian cackled. 

His attention turned to the second person - Ivan. He wore an onyx suit; the jacket was meticulously detailed with subtle pinstripes that accentuated his shoulders. A snowy silk tie provided a pastel splash of colour against the dark suit. Around his wrist, a gleaming watch glittered, encrusted with diamonds and gold. His fingers, adorned with rings of various sizes, gemstones, and inscriptions mirror the man's opulence. An ushanka was tilted slightly and sat comfortably atop his slick onyx hair. He was an ostentatious man and that was reflected in his appearance. His face was cold, seemingly carved out of stone. 

Without a word, Kian reached into a hidden pocket within his own suit and revealed a knife with a jet-black stone handle. The Russian's eyes widened in terror as Kian advanced, the knife flashing in the pale moonlight. Without any slight hesitation, he plunged it into the Russisns body repeatedly, each stab heralding a bellowing scream from Ivan. The Russian’s attempts to defend himself were futile against the onslaught, his screams echoing off the walls. Kian's knife turned into a tornado of stabs, swipes, cuts. Yet, through either cruel fate or sheer will, the man remained alive, his breaths coming in ragged gasps between shrill cries of pain.

Kian eyes sweeped the room, his eyes landing on a wall-mounted light. He removed the light bulb and lamp cover, exposing the sharp hook that had held them in place. Kian hoisted the bleeding businessman onto the hook, impaling him through the small of his back. The Russian's body sagged, suspended in an imitation of crucifixion, his weight causing the hook to rip further into his flesh.

Then, with the same knife, he began to gut the man. He carved through Ivans abdomen with a gruesome ripping noise. After around 10 deep cuts, he left the man's guts and innards to dangle grotesquely from his eviscerated stomach. The Russians eyes, wide with shock and pain, bore witness to his own disembowlement, his life trickling away in a slow, cascade of blood and entrails.

Kian stepped back and marvelled at his creation. He saw himself as an artist and his victims a canvas. 

"consider it done" kian announced, a smile dancing on his lips.