"Do you know why I use a scalpel, Mr Braithwaite?"
 
Michael Braithwaite stared at the gleam of the fluorescent light in the small blade, but remained silent. He was barely conscious, nausea ebbed through him and he struggled to maintain focus. He was tied to an old typists chair with a telephone cord, but he had no idea where he was. The room was dank and musky, and had an unused basement feel about it. Michael searched his memory in an attempt to recall the events that lead to his current predicament, his mind a blur.
 
"Do you know?" The stranger repeated, a little more insistently, waving the blade slowly in front of Michael.
 
Michael grunted, and strained against his bonds.
 
"You may think that it is because the blade is so sharp..." The stranger's voice was a low rumble as he took a step forward, his eyes piercing, relentless.
 
"Or perhaps because it is so easily concealed..." Another step forward.
 
"Or maybe it is because a scalpel is made specifically for the purpose of cutting human flesh." The stranger moved in closer still.

Michael closed his eyes and tried to remove the image of the man with the scalpel from his mind, to wish himself somewhere else, somewhere safe.
 
"But it is for none of these reasons Mr Braithwaite," The stranger smirked, the blade dancing between them, "I use a scalpel because it takes time."  And ever so gently, he nicked the flesh below Michaels left eye. A thin line of blood welled to the surface.
 
"And time is something I have plenty of Mr Braithwaite, plenty!"