[Cassel smiles when Slevin yells. That's a familiar noise, one he hasn't heard in a little while - because Slevin was cooperative, and then because he abruptly forgot how to be afraid. But he should be afraid. Fear is Cassel's due.]
[He can make anything. He can also destroy anyone.]
[Which is why, when Slevin lets invective trickle down his throat alongside the blood, Cassel grins wider. It seems like he's remembering. Throw threats at Chris, who gives a shit, Chris is loud and dangerous in his way but unrefined. But Cassel, well.]
[Yeah. Cassel can hurt him.]
[He steps behind the chair, deliberately out of Slevin's eyeline, and rifles through his notes again. Then he reaches for his kit, which is small, simple, and not precisely what one might expect, more analogous to a lockpicking kit than anything else. It's also meticulously clean. He doesn't actually use it that much; it's an appetizer.]
[He pulls out two hooks of slightly different shapes, flips them so the long handles sit squarely in his hands, and slot them delicately - almost gently - at Slevin's neck, one on either side, at the thickest point of muscle where his shoulders join. For a count of five he leans on them with a good portion of his weight, then sighs and yanks back, tearing them free.]
No. You won't.
[He nods to Chris - go - and steps back, pulling a rag out of his kit. Gotta keep shit clean.]
Spam
[He can make anything. He can also destroy anyone.]
[Which is why, when Slevin lets invective trickle down his throat alongside the blood, Cassel grins wider. It seems like he's remembering. Throw threats at Chris, who gives a shit, Chris is loud and dangerous in his way but unrefined. But Cassel, well.]
[Yeah. Cassel can hurt him.]
[He steps behind the chair, deliberately out of Slevin's eyeline, and rifles through his notes again. Then he reaches for his kit, which is small, simple, and not precisely what one might expect, more analogous to a lockpicking kit than anything else. It's also meticulously clean. He doesn't actually use it that much; it's an appetizer.]
[He pulls out two hooks of slightly different shapes, flips them so the long handles sit squarely in his hands, and slot them delicately - almost gently - at Slevin's neck, one on either side, at the thickest point of muscle where his shoulders join. For a count of five he leans on them with a good portion of his weight, then sighs and yanks back, tearing them free.]
No. You won't.
[He nods to Chris - go - and steps back, pulling a rag out of his kit. Gotta keep shit clean.]