The room became colder.Marek went rigid.Patryk’s breathing quickened.My breath caught.Wiktor pressed the blade beneath the apple’s skin.“I would begin here,” he said, tracing a circle around the stem. “Not deep. Deep cuts are wasteful. The trick is to separate the skin from the flesh without tearing it.”A thin green ribbon curled away from the apple.“Slowly. Around and around. One continuous strip, if the hand is steady.”The peel lengthened between his fingers.“Imagine Santiago opening a box and finding something delicate inside. Something pale. Soft. Still warm, perhaps.”Patryk made a strangled sound.Wiktor glanced at him, amused, then kept peeling.“I would start at your shoulder,” he told me calmly. “A neat incision. Then work downward, following the arm. Across the ribs. Around the waist.”The knife circled the fruit.
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