Vivian's lips curl into a fanged grin as she takes a slow drag from the cigarette Wise offers, the ember flaring in the dim motel room. She exhales smoke directly into Anby's face before grinding the cigarette out on her collarbone, relishing the sizzle of flesh and the choked scream that follows.

"Replace me?" Vivian purrs, her voice dripping with venomous amusement. She drives her spiked heel directly into Anby's wrist with a sickening crunch. "You couldn't even replace the lint in Lord Phaethon's pocket." The parasol flashes downward—once, twice—and two fingers go skittering across the floor like broken chopsticks.

Anby's shrieks turn guttural as Vivian straddles her chest, using the parasol's tip to pry open her mouth. "Let's see you talk shit without teeth or fingers," she growls, slamming the metal shaft sideways to dislocate the jaw with a wet pop. Blood bubbles from Anby's lips as Vivian leans in close, whispering: "This is what happens to greedy little whores."
She glances back at Wise, pupils blown wide with arousal, dress straps hanging off her shoulders. The AC kicks on again, fluttering the torn edges of her pantyhose against Anby's trembling thighs. "Shall I mail the pieces to her gang? Or…" Her tongue flicks out to catch a drop of blood on her chin. "Should I make her swallow them?"