"Mini... breathe," Ace murmured softly as he set Iris on the bed, but her sobs were uncontrollable.
Her cries echoed through the dimly lit room, each sound a raw, piercing wound that refused to heal.
The weight of her anguish filled the air, suffocating, heavy— an unbearable pressure sinking into his skin.
She was shaking violently, her entire body wracked with tremors, her fragile frame curling into itself as though she could disappear if she just made herself small enough.
The sobs weren't merely sounds— they were visceral, primal, tearing through her like claws raking over exposed nerves.
Ace's hands, so often stained with violence, hesitated.
His fingers curled into his palms, knuckles cracking under the pressure.
He had caused this. Her tears. Her pain.
The sight of her falling apart in front of him ignited something inside him— a twisted mix of possessiveness and guilt, fury and regret.
He cupped her face in his hands, his touch jarringly tender, a stark contrast to the brutality he had shown moments ago.
She flinched, her small hands weakly shoving at his chest.
But she was exhausted, her efforts feeble. He barely felt the pressure of her resistance.
"Mini, breathe with me," he urged again, his voice steady, but laced with something foreign—desperation.
She continued to struggle, her body thrashing against his ironclad hold, but he didn't let go. Not yet.
Her fists pounded against him, but it was like a bird battering against a cage, frantic but helpless.
Then, slowly, achingly, her strength gave out.
Her fight ebbed away, drained like the last flickers of a dying flame.
She slumped forward, her sobs hitching, broken, until finally, she collapsed against him.
Her small hands clutched at his shirt, gripping the fabric as if it were the only thing keeping her tethered to this world.
He held her tightly, one hand pressed to the back of her neck, the other wrapped around her trembling body, keeping her close.
Her hair was damp with sweat and tangled from her struggles, her cheeks stained with tears.
Her lips were pink, swollen from her crying, dry and cracked.
Her breaths came in ragged gasps, each one shaky, uncertain.
Ace tilted her face up, his thumb brushing against the tear-tracked skin.
"Look at me," he whispered.
It wasn't a demand—it was a plea. A silent, desperate request.
She resisted at first, her lashes wet and heavy, shielding her eyes from his.
But after what felt like an eternity, she finally lifted her gaze.
And when she did, he felt something twist deep inside him.
Her brown eyes, speckled with gold, shimmered with fresh tears.
There was no hatred in them, no accusation—only raw, unfiltered pain.
"WHY! WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HURT ME!!" she suddenly screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of her agony.
Ace stilled.
The words struck harder than a bullet, cutting through the thick walls he had spent years building around himself.
"First, I got slapped by Jeremy if I was late, sick, or took a leave... or whatever I did!! And then... people tried to touch me, and then you hurt me, calling me names God knows what they mean!!" Her voice wavered, breaking apart like shattered glass
She wasn't just talking about tonight.
She was unraveling everything, ripping open wounds that had never been allowed to heal.
"You never cared for me like a friend! You're bad, so bad! You're evil! You always hurt me, that's why I wanted to go away from you!"
Her voice rose in pitch, the storm inside her reaching its peak.
Her small fists pounded against his chest, weaker this time, her energy drained, but her frustration palpable.
Ace remained silent, letting her words sink in, letting them wrap around him like chains.
His gaze lowered, his expression unreadable, but his mind—his mind was chaos.
He had hurt so many people. Men, women. Even children and kids.
He had watched life drain from their eyes without a flicker of remorse.
Their screams had never haunted him.
Their blood had never felt like a weight on his soul.
But her?
Ace clenched his jaw, his grip on her tightening instinctively, possessively.
He had never cared for things like guilt, but this— this was something else.
A different kind of weight.
A different kind of punishment.
Maybe because she held something he lost decades ago.
"W... why?" Her voice was a breath of sound, barely audible, yet it tore through him like a blade to the ribs.
She looked at him as if he had personally shattered every fragment of hope she had left.
Her lips quivered, her chin trembled, and then—
"Can't I... d-deserve happiness... not even a bit?" The words fractured as they left her, her throat tightening around each syllable.
Ace had never felt a weight like this before— like something was clawing at the edges of his very being, dragging him into a pit of something he refused to name.
The fury that lived in his bones, the ice-cold detachment that had shielded him from the world, was cracking.
And all it took was a girl with tear-streaked cheeks and a voice too broken to be whole again.
Her breathing turned shallow, each inhale shaking as if it hurt to exist.
The sound grated against his ears, stabbing through the thin layer of control he still possessed.
He had made people bleed, had taken lives without hesitation— but this?
Her suffering carved into him in ways nothing else ever had.
Then her body went limp.
His arms shot out on instinct, catching her before she could slip away completely.
Her head lolled, eyes unfocused, staring at the ceiling with an eerie stillness.
He could feel the faint tremor in her shoulders, the aftershocks of her breakdown rattling through her delicate frame.
His grip tightened, one arm wrapped securely around her waist while his other hand pressed against the back of her head, cradling her.
"Iris," he murmured, his voice lower than a whisper.
She didn't move. Didn't respond.
Only her shallow breathing reassured him that she was still here.
But then, after an agonizing stretch of silence, her fingers twitched.
Slowly, her palm drifted upward, her trembling fingers brushing against his wrist in a fragile grasp— like she was making sure he was real.
That he was the one holding her.
"Ace..." she whispered, staring past him like she was looking into the abyss.
His breath caught. Something dark and unfamiliar twisted in his gut at the sound of his name spilling from her lips in such a broken, delicate way.
"I am tired," she confessed, her voice devoid of energy, stripped of any fight. "God is not listening to me."
Something inside him snapped.
He didn't know what, but it made his body move before his mind could catch up.
In one fluid motion, he pulled her upright, pressing her against his chest.
She didn't resist— didn't even react.
Her body remained limp, only staying upright because he was holding her there.
"God wouldn't," he murmured, his breath ghosting over the crown of her lips, "but I will."
A dry, helpless smile ghosted across her lips, as if she had long since given up on believing in promises.
"Tell me. Ask me. Anything." His voice was steady, but his grip on her remained tight— too tight.
Like he was terrified she would slip away from him.
Her heavy-lidded eyes flickered over him, unfocused and drowsy, before shifting downward.
The fabric of her oversized t-shirt had slid off one shoulder, revealing a bare stretch of skin marred by faint scratches.
His jaw clenched at the sight.
Something primal stirred beneath the surface, something violent.
A reminder that there were men breathing in this world who had dared to lay hands on her.
Gently, he laid her back against the bed, his fingers tracing along her exposed shoulder.
His touch was featherlight, reverent almost.
He slid the fabric down further, searching for more damage— but there weren't as many marks as he expected.
Relief coursed through him, but it was brief.
Fleeting. The ghosts of her pain were still there, invisible but suffocating.
When he lifted his gaze back to her face, she was watching him.
Drowsy. Detached. Hollow.
"Then kill me," she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
A slow smile curled Ace's lips.
There was something cruelly intimate about her request, about the way she looked at him with those lifeless eyes— as if she had already accepted the darkness he carried.
"Not yet," he whispered, his voice both a warning and a promise. "Suffer with me a little more."
He leaned down, his lips grazing her throat, dragging up the length of her skin until they rested against her chin.
He felt her pulse beneath his mouth, fragile and erratic, a stark contrast to the calm that had settled into his own being.
"Where did the two men touch you?" he asked, his voice losing its previous gentleness, turning cold, edged with something dangerous.
She opened her eyes and took a deep inhale.
Iris opened her eyes and inhaled sharply, the movement of her chest uneven, shuddering.
"My n-neck, shoulder, collarbone... and groped me," she admitted, her voice cracking on the last word.
The tears returned, filling the depths of her eyes before spilling over.
Ace clenched his jaw. A slow, quiet fury built in his chest, but it did not explode.
Instead, it settled into something much darker, much more controlled.
His fingers traced her jawline before cupping her face, tilting her head slightly upward.
"Shh," he hushed her, his thumb brushing away the tears that streaked down her cheeks. "Breathe, Mini. Exhale."
She let out a ragged breath, her body trembling beneath his touch.
"Sleep," he ordered softly, pressing his lips against her eyelids, a silent command.
The room was swallowed in the quiet stillness of early morning.
The distant hoots of owls and the occasional soft hum of crickets echoed in the distance.
The heavy silence pressed down on everything, thick and suffocating, a quiet witness to the chaos that had unraveled just hours before.
Eventually, exhaustion took its toll, and Iris succumbed to sleep, her small frame curled into a defensive ball on the bed.
The violent tremors wracking her body had finally stilled, her sobs fading into quiet hiccups before dissolving into the slow, unsteady rhythm of sleep.
But even in unconsciousness, there was no peace— her fingers twitched slightly, and her brows furrowed as though she was fighting something even in her dreams.
Ace sat on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped together.
His sharp gaze was fixed on the wall, but his mind was nowhere near it.
The weight of the night hung over him like a suffocating shroud, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt something dangerously close to regret.
Guilt. A bitter, unfamiliar thing that clawed at his insides like rusted nails.
What was it about this girl? Why did her suffering press against his chest like a slow knife?
He had seen countless people break before him, had destroyed them himself with his own hands, and yet her pain unraveled something inside him that he didn't understand.
Feelings were a weakness.
That was what he had been taught.
He had spent years carving them out of himself, ensuring that nothing could be used against him.
But Iris— her tears, her exhaustion, the way she had clung to him as if he were her last tether to this world— it shattered something in him that he wasn't prepared to confront.
His mind drifted back to the past, to the world that had forged him.
When he was six, his parents died, and with them, so had any remnants of innocence he might have had.
Hudson's father had ensured it.
The training, the beatings, the expectation that he would become more than just a survivor— he would become a weapon.
By the time he was seventeen, he had fulfilled that expectation.
He had become the most feared underground leader, his name spoken in whispers, his reputation etched into the screams of those who had dared to defy him.
Ace's eyes grew heavy as the exhaustion took its toll.
His gaze flickered back to the bed.
She was so small beneath the covers, curled inward as if the weight of her own existence was too much to bear.
The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest were the only indications that she was still here, still breathing, still alive.
The sight of her, vulnerable and alone, stirred something within him.
It was her eyes that had first unsettled him.
Eyes that forced him to think, to remember.
Her eyes, which made him calm.
And yet, he couldn't understand why her feelings mattered when it was just about her eyes.
Nothing was supposed to make him calm.
Not unless it was the silence after a kill, the weight of a gun still warm in his hand, the metallic scent of blood filling his lungs like the most intoxicating drug.
That was the calm he knew.
The calm he thrived in.
Without fully realizing it, he moved closer, wrapping his arms around her tiny body in a protective embrace.
As he lay beside her, holding her close, the barriers he had carefully erected over the years began to crumble.
The softness of her body against his was a stark contrast to the hardened world he had come from.
He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the crook of her neck.
Her warmth seeped into him, unfamiliar and unsettling.
He had killed men without blinking. He had torn lives apart without remorse.
He had burned entire empires to the ground and stood over the ashes with a smirk.
And yet, here he was, holding her, and for the first time in his wretched, bloodstained existence, he felt weak.
It made him sick. It made him angry.
His fingers twitched against her stomach, the phantom sensation of a blade pressing against skin flashing through his mind.
His body tensed with the same anticipation that coiled through him before a kill.
But this was different.
He wanted to hurt something. To rip someone apart with his bare hands, just to remind himself of who he was.
Of what he was.
Because if he wasn't a monster—if he cared—then what the fuck was left of him?
The thought sent a snarl curling through his throat.
His hand slid up, wrapping around the fragile curve of her throat.
His thumb traced the line of her pulse, feeling the delicate flutter of life beneath his fingertips.
So easy to crush. To snap. To silence.
His breath shuddered.
And then she moved—just the tiniest shift, her body pressing closer to him, a sigh slipping from her lips as if she found comfort in his embrace.
As if she trusted him.
But, he told himself it was temporary.
That come morning, he would be the same man he had always been.
He wasn't weak.
But he wasn't sure if that was true.
Because for the first time, the lines between his carefully constructed identity and something dangerously real had begun to blur.
And he did, in fact, tell Ivan to take care of the bastard— the one who slapped Iris.
But taking care of him wouldn't be enough.
No, he would make him suffer.
Ace POV:
I stirred at the sensation of a hand shaking my shoulder.
My instincts screamed at me to react—to grab, twist and break—but I forced myself to stillness.
Blinking groggily, my vision cleared enough to see Liam standing there.
"What?" My voice was rough, gravel scraping against the back of my throat.
"It's already six," Liam murmured. "You're going to be late for work if you don't get moving, big man."
I stared at him for a second, then watched as he turned and walked away.
Work. Routine. As if my mind wasn't still drowning in the chaos of last night.
Rubbing my face roughly, I exhaled, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep.
The moment I pulled my hands away, something cold slithered through my chest—a jolt of awareness, a tightening dread.
I scanned the room.
The bed was empty.
Iris was gone.
I forced myself through my morning routine, my movements sharp and mechanical.
My hands dragged through my hair before I tugged on my shirt, the fabric stretching over my shoulders.
The grey t-shirt, the black vest—it was all the same. Just another uniform, another day.
But something in my chest felt heavier than usual.
By the time I made my way downstairs, Athena's usual smile greeted me, a bright, meaningless display of teeth. I barely acknowledged it.
My attention was already pulled toward the kitchen.
And her.
Iris.
She was standing beside Hudson, close enough to make something ugly crawl up my throat.
Their bodies angled toward each other in a way that made my fingers twitch, my jaw locking in place as I observed them.
She was speaking to him, her voice carrying through the air, soft and sweet.
Something sharp lanced through me, a slow-burning itch I couldn't scratch. My fingers curled into fists at my sides.
"Really?" Hudson's voice was skeptical, cutting through the low hum of morning chatter.
"It will add sweetness to it," Iris explained patiently. "If you put in tomatoes, it will balance the sweetness. Perfect combo to eat with rice."
She was passionate.
With him.
The room shifted the moment I stepped in.
The soft murmur of conversation faded.
Forks hesitated against plates.
People stiffened in their seats, glancing toward me with veiled curiosity.
The weight of their gazes pressed against my skin, but I didn't care.
My focus was solely on Iris.
She glanced up, just for a second.
Then quickly looked away. brat.
Maybe I was being a bitch about it, but she didn't get to do that.
I exhaled slowly, a deep sigh rolling off my tongue.
"Iris."
Her shoulders stiffened.
I didn't give a damn about the looks from the others.
I never had, and I wasn't about to start now.
Without a word, I nudged Felix aside, pulled out his chair with slow, deliberate movements, and sat down.
"Come here."
The words left my mouth softer than I intended, and that irritated me.
She hesitated, her small fingers twitching at her sides.
Then, finally, she walked toward me, deliberate and slow, as if testing me.
I tilted my head, my patience thinning, but I didn't rush her.
Let her come to me. Let her take those small, careful steps.
Let her realize there was nowhere else she could go.
When she finally stood before me, gaze cast downward, I reached out, sliding my fingers beneath her chin and lifting her face toward me.
There.
I wanted to see her. I wanted her to know she wasn't invisible to me, no matter how hard she tried to disappear.
Her cheeks looked better today.
The finger marks had faded slightly. The sight of it settled something in me, reassured me in a way I didn't fully understand.
"Are you okay?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
I wasn't supposed to ask that. I wasn't supposed to care.
But I did.
She blinked, clearly caught off guard.
Her lips parted as if she wasn't sure how to answer, and that moment of hesitation made something sharp twist in my gut.
"Yes," she finally whispered, nodding.
"Mini bear," I murmured, watching her carefully. "Did you eat something?"
She nodded again, more certain this time. "Yes."
Good girl.
A flicker of satisfaction curled inside me.
"Why don't you serve me today?"
A small hesitation. Then, "Um... okay."
She turned away, heading toward the dining hall, and I let my gaze trail after her.
Athena's voice broke through the silence. "What was that?"
I barely turned my head toward her. "What was what?"
"That." She gestured vaguely. "Mini bear?"
"It suits her," I said simply, dismissing the topic.
"That's lame."
"I didn't ask for your opinion." My voice was sharp, edged with irritation. "So shut your mouth."
Athena let out a scoff, but I was already done with her.
My focus was back on Iris as she approached with a plate, her scent drifting through the air.
A warm, subtle thing that latched onto my senses before I could stop it.
I took the plate from her hands, my fingers grazing hers, and murmured, "You look beautiful, Mini."
The reaction was instant.
Her entire body locked up, her fingers tightening around the tray.
Her eyes—those big brown, gold-flecked eyes—widened as if I had just spoken a foreign language.
She didn't believe me.
I almost smirked. Almost.
She was dressed in the same thing she always wore— a hoodie and jeans, her hair in its usual neat braid with rebellious strands sticking up.
"I... I am sorry for last night," I murmured, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Iris choked. Literally choked.
Her entire body jolted, her throat catching on nothing, and I found myself immediately patting her back.
Gosh, this girl.
"Mini, are you okay?" Felix asked, his voice carrying a note of genuine concern.
"Non chiamarla così (Don't call her that)," I snapped, irritation lacing my voice, sharp like a blade.
Felix raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Tu la chiami così (You call her that)."
"Beh, perché posso. Chiamala di nuovo con quel nome e guarda cosa succede (Well, because I can. Call her that again and see what happens)," I said, my voice dropping to something lower, something more dangerous.
Felix held my stare for a moment before he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
But he didn't say her name again.
I cursed silently as realization dawned upon me.
I slipped up. A little too much.
He was testing me.
Pushing. Watching. Measuring.
My jaw clenched, fingers flexing against my thigh, an old habit that surfaced when I was seconds away from wrecking something— or someone.
Why the fuck did he care who Iris was to me?
What was he?
My fucking mother?
I turned my attention back to her, where she was now serving me with a speed that bordered on frantic.
"Sit with me," I instructed, my voice smooth, deceptively calm.
"Boss, I h-have work t-to do..." she stammered, her body rigid, like she was standing too close to something that could burn her.
Me.
She was standing too close to me.
"Okay," I allowed, tilting my head. "But don't you think it's bad manners if someone compliments you and you don't respond?"
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
"Y-yeah, sorry boss... Thank you boss..." she mumbled quickly, voice trembling as she spun on her heel and practically ran away from me.
I watched her go, something darkly amused stirring in my chest and I smiled.
Felix and the others were watching me now.
I could feel their gazes like pinpricks against my skin.
Leo, the idiot, was the first to speak.
"Looks like someone's practicing their genuine smile," he mused, grinning. "Didn't think you'd be the type to apologize so easily."
Felix, still smirking, leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, Ace. Next thing we know, you'll be bringing her breakfast in bed and serenading her with love songs."
Aiden, the quiet observer, finally chimed in. "And don't forget the roses. Maybe even a little poetry— 'Roses are red, violets are not blue, Ace is a monster, but he's soft for you.'"
I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitched.
Soft? Me. Tsk.
After breakfast, I prepared to leave for the east coast branch, but a strange mix of emotions clawed at me.
As I descended the stairs to the basement, the dim light from flickering bulbs cast grotesque shadows on the damp, concrete walls.
The air was heavy with the pungent scent of mold, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood— not fresh, but stale, lingering like a ghost of past sins.
When I reached the basement, I saw them—Jack and James.
Seated, bound, eyes wild with the primal fear of men who had begun to realize there was no salvation here.
Their wrists were raw from the rope biting into their skin, their faces a mess of dried blood, bruises, and swelling.
James, the bigger one, lifted his head just enough to glare at me, his lip curling in a sneer. "Who the fuck are you?"
I didn't answer immediately. I let the silence stretch, watching them squirm under my gaze.
Finally, I spoke, my voice calm. Too calm.
"I'm the person who wants some information from both of you."
Jack, younger, scrawnier, tried to mask his panic with bravado. "What information?"
"Last night," I said, stepping closer. "You tried to rape a girl."
I let the words settle. Let them fester.
James' nostrils flared. Jack's throat bobbed as he swallowed.
"I'm here to discuss that."
A beat of silence. Then James shook his head, scoffing. "No."
I almost smiled. Almost.
"Okay, then." I exhaled slowly, letting the air seep through my teeth. "I don't give second chances."
I turned, my boots echoing against the concrete as I approached the metal table where my tools lay neatly arranged.
A careful selection—blades of varying lengths, pliers, a hammer, and of course, a gun.
The rubber of my gloves made a faint squelching sound as I adjusted them over my fingers.
The scent of latex mingled with the air, sterile and unnatural against the filth of the room.
My fingers trailed over the instruments before closing around the gun's cold grip.
Metallic. Solid. Absolute.
Today is going to be exotic.
I turned back to them, watching their eyes track the weapon, their breathing quickening. Their bodies stiffened, the futile hope of mercy evaporating as I disengaged the safety.
The click was deafening in the tense silence.
I raised the gun.
James was first.
The bullet tore into his already wounded knee, the force snapping his leg backward.
A guttural scream ripped from his throat, raw and animalistic.
His body convulsed, his bound hands clenching into trembling fists.
Jack flinched, his pale skin turning a sickly shade of green.
He knew he was next.
I pivoted the gun to him, watching as he tried—and failed—to keep his composure.
"You sick fuck," he spat, his voice shaking.
I pulled the trigger.
The second shot echoed, punctuated by another scream as Jack's knee exploded in a bloom of crimson, soaking into the concrete.
His head dropped forward, chest heaving, pain overriding his ability to speak.
I exhaled, rolling my shoulders back, savoring the heavy silence that followed.
Much better.
Now, we could begin.
Gore
After removing both thier ropes, I grabbed James and hoisted him onto one of the steel stretchers, the cold metal scraping against the concrete floor with a grating shriek.
The sound sent a tremor of anticipation through me, a dark pleasure curling in my gut as his body thrashed against my hold.
His panicked struggles were futile.
The second his back hit the stretcher, I pressed my weight down onto him, pinning him in place.
"Stay fucking still," I muttered, strapping his wrists down first, the leather restraints creaking as I pulled them tight.
His legs kicked wildly, a desperate attempt at resistance, but I subdued him with practiced ease.
I relished the way his breath came in short, rapid bursts, his chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm.
The dim overhead bulb flickered, casting erratic shadows across the instruments laid out on the steel tray beside me.
Each one gleamed under the intermittent light— a scalpel, forceps, sutures, a bone saw— each tool chosen with meticulous intent.
I reached for the scalpel, its cold, precise weight settling perfectly into my palm.
The edge glistened, a thin sheen of sterilizing alcohol evaporating as I turned it over in my fingers.
James was breathing too fast, his chest heaving against the restraints.
His eyes locked onto mine, wide and frantic. Nice....
"Please—please, man, don't—"
I pressed the scalpel to his abdomen and dragged it down.
The blade sliced through flesh with effortless grace, parting his skin like butter.
A sharp, wet gasp tore from his throat, his body jerking violently beneath me.
I watched, transfixed, as crimson welled up along the incision, a slow, lazy bloom of red that trailed down the stretch of his stomach.
The scream that ripped from him was exquisite.
It echoed off the walls, raw and unfiltered, the sound vibrating through my bones.
His hands clenched into fists against the restraints, his body arching off the stretcher as pain overtook him.
"FUCK! STOP! PLEASE!"
I didn't, instead I smiled, widely.
The scent of fresh blood flooded the room, thick and metallic, mixing with the sweat beading on his skin.
I peeled back the layers with methodical precision, exposing the delicate, glistening viscera beneath.
That's why I say studying is important. Handful at these movements.
The sight was both grotesque and fascinating— the human body reduced to its most primal, fragile form.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Jack.
He was frozen near the locked door, his hands trembling violently at his sides.
His wide, terrified eyes flicked between me and James's open stomach, horror painted across every inch of his face.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? YOU FUCKING PSYCHO!" Jack's voice was hoarse with panic, his limbs jerking as though he wanted to run but couldn't will himself to move.
Pathetic.
I reached into the incision, my fingers sinking into the warm, wet depths of James's abdomen.
His body convulsed, his screams cracking into hoarse, desperate sobs.
I located his kidney with ease, the organ smooth and firm beneath my touch.
A deep satisfaction unfurled within me as I severed it, the suctioning sound of flesh parting filling the silence.
Okay, it was not as hard as I had anticipated.
James was slipping, his breath turning shallow, his body trembling violently.
Shock was setting in, the edges of his consciousness fraying.
I yanked his head back by the hair, forcing his glazed eyes to meet mine.
"Not yet," I murmured. "Stay awake."
Rubbing my hands, I slapped him hard.
James's head lolled to the side, his lips parting as he gasped weakly, his body twitching against the cold, unforgiving steel.
Blood seeped in thick rivulets down his sides, warm and sluggish, pooling beneath him, staining the rusted tray where his kidney now rested.
The sharp tang of iron filled the air, thick enough to taste on my tongue.
Methodically, I stitched up the incision.
The stitches were hasty and rough— jagged rows of black thread pulling his torn skin together like a grotesque patchwork doll.
It wasn't meant to be neat. It wasn't meant to heal.
It was meant to prolong his suffering.
I turned my attention to Jack.
The scent of urine hit me first, acrid and sour, mixing with the already putrid aroma of blood and sweat.
The dark stain spread across his pants, his knees knocking together as he shook uncontrollably, his entire body a trembling, pathetic mass of regret and wasted breath.
I exhaled sharply, my lips curling in disgust. "You're fucking pathetic."
Jack let out a choked sob, his back pressed against the door like a cornered rat, his eyes darting wildly as if some invisible escape would present itself. Nitwit.
In one swift motion, I gripped his waistband and yanked his pants down, exposing him to the frigid air.
He let out a strangled yelp, hands scrambling to cover himself as though dignity still existed for him.
"Sit," I ordered, dragging him forward by his collar.
He stumbled, his hands clawing at mine in a useless attempt to resist, his fingers weak, damp with sweat.
I shoved him onto the chair, his wounded leg giving out with a sickening crunch.
His scream was raw, ripped straight from his throat as he convulsed from the pain.
His chest heaved, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts.
"P-please," he whispered, voice barely more than a breath of air. "Please don't—"
I picked up the scalpel again, running my thumb over its bloody pristine edge, reveling in the way it gleamed under the dim, flickering light.
I pressed the blade against his groin, just lightly enough to make him tense.
His breath hitched, his pulse hammering against the thin skin of his throat.
"You tried to use this against a girl who begged me to kill her last night," I mused, dragging the blade lazily over the fabric of his underwear, feeling the way his body clenched, stiff as a board.
"Let's see how you like it, big boy."
James's labored breathing filled the room, underscored by Jack's panicked sobs.
The sound was sweet, a desperate symphony of suffering.
I felt a chuckle bubbling in my chest—low, guttural, uncontrollable.
"Neck, collarbone, shoulder," I murmured, voice barely above a whisper, lost in the memory of her trembling form beneath my hands. "And you groped her breasts."
I seized his fingers and pressed the scalpel against the first knuckle.
With deliberate slowness, I sliced.
The blade parted flesh and bone like paper, severing his index finger cleanly.
His scream was unholy, a sound that reverberated through the walls, scraping against the very marrow of his being.
Blood sprayed, hot and viscous, drenching my hands, painting the floor.
One by one, I worked my way down, each severed digit eliciting a fresh wave of shrieks.
His body convulsed violently, his face contorted in agony, drool and blood mixing at the corners of his mouth. Adorable.
I tilted my head, watching the spasms ripple through him. "You know... why the hell did you even touch her?"
"I AM SORRY! I AM SORRY!" he shrieked, the words tumbling over each other in blind panic.
I huffed, feigning disappointment. "But I really needed a body to relieve my stress. So thank you for your ugly service."
And then, with a swift, fluid motion, I drove the scalpel into his groin.
The scream that tore from him was no longer human.
It was animalistic— feral, raw, a sound of pure, unfiltered torment.
He writhed against the chair, his body bucking so violently that the chair rattled, metal scraping against the concrete floor.
The blood poured freely, warm and thick, pooling beneath him, joining the already growing river of crimson.
Jack's eyes rolled back in his skull, his body trembling violently as he struggled against unconsciousness.
But I wasn't done.
I leaned in, my lips grazing the shell of his ear. "Eat it."
His head jerked, eyes widening, pupils blown wide with sheer horror.
I picked up one of his severed fingers, its flesh still warm, the blood still oozing, and pried his jaw open.
He gagged, twisting his head wildly, but I shoved the meat past his lips, forcing it onto his tongue.
The retching was instant.
His body convulsed as vomit spewed from his mouth, bile and half-digested filth splattering across the bloodied floor.
Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the snot dripping from his nose, a pathetic display of his complete and utter downfall.
Without hesitation, I lifted a full bucket of boiling water.
And threw it over both of them.
The room exploded with sound—screams, the sizzling hiss of flesh meeting scalding heat, the frantic clattering of metal as their bodies convulsed from the unbearable agony.
Steam rose, thick and suffocating, the acrid stench of burnt flesh filling the space.
The next step in my favorite ritual was to rub rock salt into the open wounds and cuts. Yay~~
The coarse grains of salt embedded themselves into the raw, exposed flesh, each crystal sinking into the torn tissue like tiny daggers.
The moment the salt made contact, Jack's body seized with a violent jerk, his screams echoing off the cold, damp walls of the basement.
His back arched off the chair, his hand twitching uselessly against the chair as his body fought against the onslaught of agony.
James, barely conscious, let out a whimper, his body shuddering involuntarily as if he could feel the pain by proximity alone.
I unstrapped him with a deliberate slowness, savoring the moment before shoving him off the steel stretcher with a force that sent him sprawling onto the blood-slicked floor.
His limbs moved sluggishly, disoriented, his breath hitching as he realized he had no strength to crawl away.
I seized him by the back of his head, fingers tangling in his sweat-soaked hair, and yanked his face toward Jack's ruined form.
"Lick it." My voice was soft, almost gentle.
James shuddered, his head shaking weakly in protest, but I tightened my grip and slammed his face down against the mutilated flesh.
"I said, lick it."
A choked sob slipped from his lips, but eventually, his trembling tongue flicked out, barely grazing the salted, burnt skin.
The taste of sweat, blood, and seared flesh must have been revolting, because he retched immediately, his entire body convulsing in protest.
I clicked my tongue.
Pathetic.
I wrenched his head back and tossed him onto his side, watching as he curled into himself, shaking violently.
Then I reached for the axe.
The weight of it was familiar in my grip, a reassuring heaviness that hummed with purpose.
I stepped forward, letting the steel blade rest against Jack's exposed throat, savoring the way his Adam's apple bobbed with a strangled gulp.
The first swing was clean, precise.
The sound of steel tearing through sinew and bone was a deep, wet crunch, followed by a final, gurgling exhale.
His body spasmed before slumping lifelessly in the chair, the head barely connected to the mess of shredded muscle and tissue.
James had no time to react before I turned the axe onto him.
Neck, shoulder, chest, hands.
A chorus of steel meeting flesh and the dull thuds of body parts hitting the bloodstained floor.
The scent of raw meat, fresh and metallic, filled the room, mingling with the acrid tang of piss and sweat.
I barely spared the severed remains a glance before turning to Ivan, whose impassive expression remained unshaken.
But I knew he was disgusted.
"Throw it to the dogs."
Without hesitation, the guards stepped forward, grabbing the dismembered limbs and torsos, dragging them away to be discarded like scraps.
I peeled the blood-covered gloves from my hands and tossed them into the dumpster.
The red stains still clung stubbornly to my skin, streaks of it catching the light as I ran my fingers under the cold tap.
Each motion was methodical.
The water swirled pink before disappearing down the drain, washing away the evidence of what had transpired.
And when I finally looked into the mirror, my reflection stared back at me.
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