Rat 3 was the smallest among us, a delicate creature whose fragile, slender body often seemed to vanish behind the thick, dark pelt of rat 4.    In a place where shadows stalked  and dangers lurked in every corner, Rat 4 had become a motherly figure to Rat 3. They were inseparable, a tiny duo navigating the underbelly of Peterson's domain, relying on each other for comfort and strength.

That fateful day, however, Rat 3 learned an important lesson that would haunt him for months to come:  

NEVER approach Peterson unless summoned.

The morning had dawned serene, a tranquility that often characterized our days. Peterson had left the house, presumably to run errands or engage in whatever mundane activities filled his peculiar life. Unlike the drudgery experienced by most lab rats, or testing subjects- we enjoyed a certain freedom in Peterson’s basement—a world of disarray that welcomed our scurrying forms. If one could tolerate the acrid stinks of decaying refuse and forgotten remnants of experiments, our exploration was a thrilling game.

But as night fell, an ominous change accompanied the fading light. Night was Peterson’s time, a period when he prowled through the shadows, and we, the hapless inhabitants of the basement, had to retreat and hide.

On that particular night, I felt an eerie hush fall over us, a stillness punctuated only by the distant sounds of the outside world. Then, I heard the unmistakable creak of the basement door being flung open, sending tremors through the confined air. Peterson had returned.

His boots struck the floor with heavy thuds, and I scurried to my usual refuge near a pile of boxes that smelled of soot and ash—unaware that Rat 2 had already claimed haven there. The boxes swayed, but the shelter was not as inviting as I had presumed.

Rat 2 shrieked, baring sharp teeth at my intrusion, burrowing deeper into the oppressive stench of the discarded debris.

Ignoring our discord, Peterson settled at his rickety desk lit only by the flickering glow of a waning lantern. The feeble light illuminated the array of tools and grotesque substances that defined his work—devices of torment and vials of dark concoctions that seemed to pulse with malevolence.

“My oh my…” he chuckled, the deep, husky notes of his voice laced with a sing-song German accent that echoed unsettlingly in the dim light. “What a shitty day…”

A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and he slouched over the clutter, his demeanor shifting to one of deep contemplation. We, the rats, pinned our gaze on him, our tiny hearts racing in synchronized apprehension. In that moment, we were mere spectators to the horrors that unfolded in his twisted little sanctuary.

Suddenly, with a deliberate slowness, he reached beneath his coat and produced an object that gleamed menacingly under the dim light. The sharp reflection of a blade caught my eye, the metal glinting ominously—a knife.   

My whiskers twitched nervously as he rolled up the sleeve of his jacket, the fabric sliding back to reveal his smooth, pale skin. In his hand, he held the knife, its blade gleaming in the dim light.

I watched in a daze, my heart racing, as he pressed the cold steel against his flesh. With deliberate precision, he sliced thin lines across his skin, the crimson liquid pooling forth, glistening in the gloomy atmosphere. A sense of macabre fascination washed over me as I surveyed his unnervingly cheerful demeanor amidst the chaos.

“Only if others could make it hurt like this,” he sang, a sickly chuckle escaping his lips as if he were sharing a delightful secret. Each incision was a testament to his warped amusement, and I felt a shiver crawl down my spine.

A metallic odor began to permeate the air, a familiar stench that churned my stomach—blood. My instinct urged me to retreat further into the shadows of the boxes that surrounded me, my soft fur bristling in apprehension. I made small, involuntary noises, hoping to remain unnoticed as my fellow rats, wide-eyed and tense, watched Peterson with a mixture of fear and grim curiosity.

He wasn’t in the mood for his usual ‘experiments’ today—this was both a blessing and a curse. While his distractions normally spared us from his darker impulses, the alternative was far more perilous. I sensed the storm brewing within him, knowing too well that he would unleash his self-destructive tendencies without hesitation.

And so we remained, silent observers, bound by an unspoken understanding as he turned the blade against himself without mercy. It was as if time slowed as his lanky figure suddenly froze mid-slice, the knife slipping from his fingers and clattering onto the desk. His head followed suit, thudding heavily against the surface with an unsettling resonance.

An arm limply dangled over the edge of the desk, and I watched, entranced, as his own blood began to drip from his fingers, creating a slow, steady cascade that fell to the floor below. The dark, maroon puddle formed, spreading out like some grotesque work of art, a testament to his torment. In that haunting moment, the line between fascination and fear blurred, leaving us all imprisoned within the tension of his fragile sanity.

I was unaware of rat 3's precarious position until, from the shadows, I caught sight of his slender frame cautiously emerging from beneath a crumpled plastic bag, its contents a mystery. He moved gingerly, as if each inch forward required an immense amount of bravery.

Suddenly, rat 4, his companion, let out a warning squeak, trying to alert rat 3 of the danger lurking nearby. But it was too late; rat 3 had wandered far too close to Peterson.

Peterson groaned—a lethargic, defeated sound that somehow twisted into something sinister. Rat 3, feeling an unexpected tug of pity, darted toward him, his little heart, perhaps, yearning to comfort. He inched closer to Peterson's leg, his delicate whiskers twitching with uncertainty, his wiry paws outstretched as if to caress the source of despair.

What rat 3 didn’t realize was that this display of sympathy was a grave miscalculation, one that would lead him down a dark path of anguish. In an instant, Peterson’s head jerked upward, his eyes locking onto the unsuspecting rat now perilously close to his boot. A twisted grin spread across his face—a grin brimming with a manic delight, as though he found amusement in the discomfort of others.

And then, with a swift and jarring motion, he seized rat 3 by the tail. The world hung suspended for a moment as the little creature dangled helplessly in the air, a delicate life held captive by cruel hands. My breath caught in my throat, chilling me as I watched my fellow rodent strung up like a puppet, his fate hanging in the balance.

“Oh, you little vermin,” Peterson crooned, his voice dripping with a sardonic sweetness. “I’m hogging all the fun, aren’t I?” The tone of his voice sent a shiver down my spine, instilling a creeping doubt about rat 3's chance of survival.

“Come now! Let me share my pain with you~” he mocked, a glint of sadistic glee brightening his eyes. Peterson then slammed rat 3 onto the desk, the impact leaving the small creature wobbling, disoriented. 

With a flourish, Peterson grabbed his knife, its blade held close to his face, watching the rat flail helplessly beneath his gaze. In a cruel flash, the cold steel met rat 3's tail, eliciting a high-pitched screech that echoed through the room. Peterson's laughter erupted, a sickening, triumphant sound, as he dropped the knife to seize rat 3 again, yanking him through the air with reckless abandon.

Peterson tossed rat 3 around like a ragdoll, toying with the hapless creature as blood began to splatter around the desk, a grotesque mixture of red that mingled horrifyingly with Peterson’s own. The sheer sadism of the scene was undeniable. My heart sank for poor rat 3, trapped in a waking nightmare.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of torment, Peterson flung rat 3 down to the floor, where the small creature gasped for breath, disoriented and now missing his tail. A hollow, pitiful sound filled the air as rat 3 struggled to crawl away, his spirit battered but not broken.

At that moment, rat 4 rushed to the aid of her fallen friend, urgency fueling her tiny body as she scampered back to the sanctuary of the plastic bag, determined to guide rat 3 away from the horrors that lay above. Together, they vanished into the shadows, a brief respite from the madness that had just unfolded.

End of pt 2.