The old woman's smile did not return after that.
Something uglier took its place.
At first, she tried to pretend she was still in control. She pulled the spike from Ludwig's thigh with a wet sound, examined the blood on its tip, and gave him the sort of patient look an executioner might give a prisoner who had not yet understood the lesson. She changed tools slowly, almost ceremonially, as if the performance itself was meant to sharpen fear. A thin blade came first. Then a hook. Then the pliers he had already insulted. She moved around the chair with practiced care, cutting, pinching, twisting, and waiting for the human response that should have followed.
Ludwig gave her nothing.
Not courage.
Not defiance.
Nothing so satisfying.
He looked bored.
That was what ruined her most.
