Fire suddenly erupted, as if a bomb had exploded inside the straitjacket, shredding the tough garment to pieces and blasting the violent "roommate" away.
Dilite rose from the floor. He seemed a head shorter than before, and he curled his lips as he stared fanatically at the "roommate" who had been thrown back. The man was a bald white man, bare-chested and covered in dense scars, as though he had been sliced apart a thousand times.
On closer inspection, the scars on his body were not random. They were arranged like tally marks—four parallel knife cuts crossed by a fifth. Four plus one made five. At a glance, it looked as though he had been counting days on his own body.
"Ah, what a surprising discovery. This prey is a metahuman."
The man seemed unharmed by the explosion. Instead, he climbed to his feet with a vicious grin, a sharp knife somehow appearing in his hand—a crude weapon ground from sheet metal.
Having switched to Blast's personality, Dilite merely stared at the man. Sparks flickered faintly in his newly freed eyes, illuminating the dim ward.
"I am Victor Zsasz. Given your abilities, I'll leave a place for you here." Victor Zsasz pointed the tip of his knife at a patch of relatively unblemished skin near his collarbone.
If he was not bluffing, every scar on his body represented a life. Those densely packed scars meant that the man before him was an utterly cold-blooded serial killer who had already claimed hundreds of lives.
Blast showed no fear at all. Instead, he stared at the scars on Victor Zsasz's body. "Do you like destruction?"
"Murder? Of course I do. Cutting open their throats with a blade and watching them struggle as they die—the feeling practically makes me climax." Victor Zsasz trembled