Skyy's breath hitched as the branch around his throat loosened, its rough surface grazing his skin. Tears blurred his vision, but he could feel the trembling in its movements—hesitation, almost like reluctance. Slowly, it uncoiled, retreating with deliberate care, brushing his face one last time before pulling away completely.
Prisitsky's body convulsed. His veins bulged unnaturally, writhing under his skin as if alive. He stumbled back, his hands clutching his chest, a strangled cry escaping his lips. Dark, pulsing branches began to force their way out of his body, tearing through his arms and shoulders in a grotesque display. Blood dripped to the floor, the veins detaching as if rejecting him.
