Humana 2 — A Centopeia

Martin looks into the lens. He smiles—a shy, awkward smile.

The Sequencer

He didn't have surgical tools or a sterile lab. He had a rusty staple gun, a roll of duct tape, a set of dull kitchen knives, and a stolen wheelchair. a centopeia humana 2

He converted the garage’s disused sub-level into his operating theater. He tied his victims to stained mattresses on the floor. There were no anesthetics. Martin believed pain was "the adhesive of the soul." Martin looks into the lens

Martin lived in his mother’s basement in East London. The walls were stained with damp, and the only light came from a flickering CRT television. He was a small, sweaty man with thick glasses and a breathing problem. His job was collecting tickets at a concrete parking garage, a world of grey echoes and exhaust fumes. He had a rusty staple gun, a roll

The second was his neighbor, a noisy gossip who always complained about the smell from his basement. The third was a security guard who caught Martin sleeping on the job. Martin didn't choose randomly; he chose people who had humiliated him. Each kidnapping was a petty revenge, a stitch in his masterpiece.

Martin turned his camcorder on her. "You go in the front, Mum."