An idle thought formed in his head, a quietly amused consideration. Ardyn thinking that maybe if he focused hard enough, he could see the minute vibrations of Prompto’s heart hammering in his chest, the way skin moved against the tip of the knife with each hurried breath, threatening to break skin without him even having to move. That Ardyn could make him bleed by merely being close was a morose, delightful thought. He wondered how long he could simply sit like this, on the threshold of a silent threat but never crossing that line. How much damage Prompto might do against his own body (wrists likely to blossom with color, the consequences of blood vessels bursting just under the skin against those restraints) and his mind. The terrible anxiety of not knowing what Ardyn would do to him. Worse than any sort of pain he could hope to inflict.

Almost, anyway.

He pressed down, just enough to draw blood, then slid the blade almost lackadaisically downwards. A trail of red blossomed in its wake, bright crimson against the dull hues of the room, of Prompto’s pale skin.

“If you struggle, it only cuts deeper.”