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🇩🇪&🇷🇺 Our blood TR &USSR

Hello!
As I mentioned I have a long weekend and am in a good mood today, so here have the next shorter story already.
There is no ship in here, it is set at the end of WW2 TR is already captured and meant to be tortured by USSR, but see what unfolds for yourself .
I am warning you now there is violence in this, mabye a mild gore warning but not all that much.

Also one question do you like a little introduction into the story more or to just be thrown in?

That being said, enjoy!
Words: 1108

"How does one kill without mercy?" The question echoes through the dense air of the old dungeon.
"One learns, old friend." The answer sounds, accompanied by the creaking of the old torture chair.
"One learns to lose mercy?" The clatter of tools on a metal tray being dragged over on the small table.
"No. One learns that history doesn't bother to tell tales about the weak. However-"

A strong fist colliding with an injured shoulder caused the man's voice to break off into a pained hiss.
"It halts to tell about the unique, the deranged, the grotesque." He continues on anyway as the fist leaves as fast as it came.
"So you became the grotesque to be told about." Soviet observed absentmindedly, while arranging his tools on the metal table next to the chair. Making the unique sounds of metal clanking on metal resound through the old stone cells.

"Exactly. I became the very thing history will revolve around, even in a thousand years. You hear about this time, you hear about my crimes. History is the greatest tale we can tell. And these twelve years will forever be mine."
Chains rattled as they were picked up and hung on an old rusty hook, for later use, just in case he wanted to get access to his back. In this time the young Russian's face, already withered from the harsh reality of war, scrunched up in disgust. His mind flooded with ideas, just as deranged as the monster before him, now dependant on his mercy, as he continued his preparations for the torture that would from now on become his only reality.

"I won't let that happen." He stated calmly, almost too calmly for the situation he was in. He was in control, the other was now powerless and he would forever keep it this way.
"You have no say in it, I'm afraid. You may be able to silence those who have suffered, but you can't erase the suffering I caused... and in the end, however long history might let it last, your tale will be as dark as mine." The silent giggles that left the tied man hit a nerve. Memories came flooding back to him, the sense of control he'd just had withered before him, within him. It drove him insane, how the other still had this much control over him, while tied up and captured,  seemingly powerless, yet still so powerful. It had to end. He saw red, didn't think.
Carelessly grabbed a nearby dagger by the blade, spun around and seathed it into the other’s leg, about the height of the mid thigh area. The giggling broke off into a loud groan of pain, but the German didn't try to pull away, he pushed his leg into the touch. His whole back arched upwards, arms and head trying to snap up, being yanked back down by thick leather straps on each wrist and the vulnerable neck.

A chocked sound left his throat and he fell back against the chair and headrest, head lolling back, half lidded eyes rolling up into the head, the previously clenched jaw hanging open, revealing sharp, deadly canines. The second of complete silence hit the Soviet like a brick, then it was disturbed by heavy panting slowly rising into more laughter.

Looking at the deranged man he saw him focused on not him, but something lower and as he followed his line of sight, his stomach turned upside down and he felt he needed to puke. Displayed before him was a gruesome sight. The dagger was stuck in the other’s leg, blood gushing out of the wound and drenching his black pants, but the worst part was what came above. He was still holding onto it tight and only now realized he himself had the blade in hand. It cut his glove and his own crimson blood flowed over his knuckles, down the blade, into the wound and mixed with the German's.

"In the end, Soviet, your path will be drenched in blood, just as mine is. Just like our bloods are mixing on my leg as we speak, your path will forever be intertwined with mine all the bad I've caused. You can't separate them anymore. You'll never fully get rid of me. Not now and not in a thousand years!"

His maniacal laughter died down, his tone became serious, his dead blue eyes bore into the Russian's drained golden ones. He continued on stern, almost bordering monotone. A strange rasp added to his voice.

"How many good men's stories have you heard, how many bad?" This was getting worse by the second, Soviet suddenly lost all control of the situation, all interest in making the man scream in pain, he just wanted to get away and breathe. The room felt so small. The walls seemed to close in on him.

"Humans won't seek the good in the bad, but the bad in the good. They always seek reason, so when they inevitably search for mine-''

The chair dropped backwards and interrupted the man for a second, as he was now roughly pulled into a lying position with it. Soviet had somehow managed to push the pedal with his foot and rip his eyes off the German's seemingly dead glare as well as let go of the dagger. He couldn't engage in conversation with this maniac, he'd pull him in like so many others before him, like so he'd done so many times before this one and then make him his next victim.
So he used the chance, flipped on the big, blinding operating light above them and got himself a scalpel, avoiding him, especially his eyes, at all costs.

"Tell them I was bored and wanted a piece of history to myself."

The next second, he wanted to retaliate, he was already too late and the other's head dropped to the side, body laid limp and foam gushed out his mouth.
He killed himself, before he could be punished.
He was in control till the very end.