Blood slid lazily from each cut. There was a dull, itching sort of pain, like getting a bad cat scratch; at least the knives were sharp. Kavinsky reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a cigarette case, which made noises like it was empty, or very nearly. When he opened it, it was not. He pulled out a single black-paper cigarette with deft, sooty-looking fingers, popped it between his lips, and gently flicked the tip to light it.

The door gave a very soft click. They'd fulfilled their obligations.

Kavinsky grinned around the cigarette, feral. "You can run away now."