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Chapter-11

Ralph felt an intense urge to grasp her throat tightly and suffocate her until she couldn't breathe. He desired to restrain her and whip her so mercilessly that all she could do was scream. It excited him to imagine the sinful things he would do to hear her cries only. There was a twisted part of him that craved to use her blood to create his next painting. Ralph experienced a sense of ecstasy when he observed his reflection in the mirror, his white shirt stained with the blood of his driver. The person had infuriatingly caused him to be late for his exhibition. The haunting echoes of the driver's cries and screams as he plunged a knife deep into his chest still reverberate in Ralph's mind like softly spoken musical notes.

“What a fucking waste?” he muttered disdainfully, contorting his mouth with exasperation as he effortlessly flung his shirt over his shoulder. Tilting his head, he meticulously assessed the multitudinous array of ink adorning his skin, covering the remnants of scars
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