Mason

Watching King work usually makes me a bit ill. The way he seems to find a rhythm in destruction, precision in pain—it's more than most people can stomach. But tonight, as I stand in the dim light of the garage, I see something else.

It's not just brutality. It's art, if you can call it that. Every shallow slice he carves into Phillips' chest, every muffled scream and whimper, feels deliberate, like King's sketching a portrait of suffering.

And as fucked-up as it may ...