It’s probably a discomforting sight, to realise you’re gagged and pitifully desperate, and even more disturbing to have your former biology teacher looming over you as though you were a helpless insect caught in his web. 

"I thought you could at least manage to be a good boy and lie down willingly, but it seems you couldn’t even handle that. I don’t know why I expected anything from you.” His voice is fraught with exhaustion and, of course, irritation, and muffled by his surgical mask; Herscha is standing in front of the stretcher. The room is dark but he’s illuminated by the overhead lamp, and it adds an even more ghoulish touch to his gaunt, spiderlike frame. It would be creepy even without the hypodermic syringe he’s cradling almost lovingly in his gloved hands.

"I’m the one who suffered, you know." Wringing those hands together, the bioterrorist snarled. He had a rather fearsome expression tightening his sickly skin further; despite his relative youth, his work had taken its toll on the dark-haired man, who seemed on the verge of mental breakdown. "Forced into the role of an - ugh - educator, which made my research - so needlessly difficult-" his breath is coming in laboured wheezing, amber eyes narrowed in hatred "- he must consider me- such a disappointment. How I can call myself his assistant-“

Eyes gleaming, Herscha brushed down his labcoat, and climbed atop the stretcher until his frail body awkwardly straddled the taller boy, one jutting, bony kneecap hitting Kyung in the ribcage. Herscha swung his long, dark ponytail over his shoulder and coughed into the confines of his mask, harsh and sickly. His former student’s eyes were wide with fear and he squirmed and jerked in discomfort and terror, but frail as he was, Herscha was able to hold him down, thanks to the confines largely keeping him in place - and the effects of the drug he’d administered earlier making the younger boy’s head loll in slight drowsiness.

This was the closest he had ever gotten to a test subject in physical means, and his skin was crawling already; he longed to disinfect himself, but not until he had finished with Hyun.

"I suppose for you, this is an act of mercy, Hyun,” he scoffed, pale lips curling in scorn. “You don’t have to thank me.” Stabbing the empty syringe into the boy’s collarbone, Herscha’s bony hands closed around his neck. Kyung’s eyes widened, glassy with the beginning of tears, and he tried to thrash against the bioterrorist. Even Herscha found it pathetic, really, how someone as physically frail as himself could have him like an obedient dog with just the help of a simple chemical.

He tightened his hands, bright veins and yellowed, long fingernails and all, and tightened his grip with a squeeze to his windpipe, carelessly, cutting off Kyung’s air supply so abruptly that his throat hitched and made a strangled noise reminiscent of drowning. It didn’t take long before he was limp, collapsed against Herscha, who pushed him away roughly, clambering off his corpse.