CHAPTER- 1
Ace POV:
*Gore*
A grim satisfaction settled over me like a thick fog as I took in the utterly funny scene before me—a battered, half-naked boy sprawled on the cold floor, trembling and sobbing.
His body was a roadmap of warm ups: bruises mottled across his stomach and ribs, and pretty knife cuts on his thighs that wept slow, crimson trails.
His bloodshot eyes flickered up to meet mine, lips trembling in a desperate, futile attempt at silence.
“Hii, Matthew.”
I waved. Smiled,even. Then crouched in front of him like we were about to have a pleasant little conversation.
My fingers brushed through his damp hair—sticky, dirty. He flinched like I’d burned him.
Ah.Progress.
“L-Leave me, leavge m-me. Please, p-please!!” His words were sluggish, coarse, like he was trying to speak through a mouthful of broken glass.
His cries echoed around the room, bouncing off the walls like a broken record, as he continued to sob and beg the same thing that everyone did here.
Tsk.
Always the same script.Same words. Same tone. Same desperation packaged differently.
“Please, please! I have a family—”
Of course you do.
They always appear right at the end.
“Sshh,” I placed my finger against his lips.
He froze.
“Don’t worry,” I murmured, voice softer than it needed to be.“I will send you to your family.”
His brows pulled together. Confusion. Slow, delayed.
“I mean,” I continued, tilting my head slightly, “think about it... what would an useless boy like you would be of any use to me.”
The words came out lazy. Almost bored.
“—But it would be a different case, if you had those ey—
I stopped. Smiled to myself.
Never mind.
He didn’t deserve the rest of that sentence.
Andalsocute.If he was then I might have shown mercy during my sessions.
Maybe.Maybe not.
Mercy is... flexible.
I bit my lower lip as I saw what I like most rise in his eyes—Hope.
Twisted with desperation.
There it is.
That fragile, stupid little thing.Clawing its way back even now.
“L-Let me go. Please..”
His hand reached out, gripping my ankle.Weak. Shaking.
How ironic.
I didn’t move. Let him hold on. Let him believe it meant something— a chance.
He looked like the sight of a naive boy, who goes to church everyday and trips on weekends with his family, distributing cookies and lemonades in blazing heat, and working in some useless teenage cleaning community clubs.
Picture perfect.Clean. Harmless. Soft.
And he fucking does.
That’s how he chose his next prey.
The oldest trick in the book, dusted off and played to perfection.
Because people are stupid.They trust faces. Not patterns.
His appearance was an advantage. A perfect illusion of a good, perfect golden boy.
Golden boys don’t rot in public.They rot in private. Quietly.Carefully.
A boy who had clearly crossed a line that led him to this place where his fate rested in my hands, not the god.
God.Pfft.
A God whom he prayed everyday honestly, and sought forgiveness for.
Forgiveness is such a....convenient concept.
Do what you want—
Then kneel. Whisper. Reset. Repeat.
My gaze settled back on him.
In my eyes this disgusting little parasite was—
A fucking pervert— Who do robberies, arsons, assaults and rape without any discrimination.
And since he was on the lean and skinny side, he always picked his victims carefully— skinny kids under fourteen.
What an art of piece of Jesus.Truly.A depraved masterpiece.
The lack of concrete evidence often let him slip through the cracks of the legal system, allowing him to walk free after mere months.
Cracks.
I almost laughed at that.As if it were accidental.
No—It’s not a crack if everyone knows it’s there and still steps over it. That’s not a flaw. That’s design.
He didn’t slip.He wasallowedto slip.
The system doesn’t miss things.It chooses whatnotto hold.
And of course, his parents, whose morals are up their asses, prioritizing their reputation over anything else—is the main second reason.
Becausea ruined name hurts more than a ruined life,apparently.
The first reason is because—he’s a male.
People hesitate.They question. They doubt.
“Are you sure?”"He doesn’t look like that kind of person.”"Maybe it’s a misunderstanding.”
And just like that—Time passes. Evidence fades. Voices get tired.
And he walks away.
Evenifthe police caught him, only for him to reappear from juvenile detention without a trace of reformation in his heart, bound to repeat his malevolent actions.
Juvenile detention.A pause button.
Nothing more.
You don’t fix something by locking it in a room and hoping it forgets what it is.
Reformation implies there was something worth reforming in the first place.
There wasn’t.
After all, Malevolence doesn’t fade if it grows inside you in the first place and it knows no age.And I was living proof of that truth.
I knew that better than anyone.
Malevolence isn’t taught.It doesn’t arrive one day with experience and age like some late guest.
No—it’s there early.Quiet. Watching.
Waiting for the first excuse.
The first opportunity.
And then it stretches.
Tapping his head, and offering a soft smile as he weeped and continued begging.
So, instead of allowing this boring cycle to continue, I entertained the idea of utilizing his existence to soothe my restless and curious mind and.....give him what he deserves.
I hope I don’t sound like a saint.
Because really—
If you’re going to exist in the world like this, the least you can do is be...useful.
I mean it was a request from my slave as his birthday gift.
Standing up, pulling out the latex glove and a textured rubber glove from my pocket and sliding them on my hands.
The snap of latex against my wrist echoed faintly.
Curling and stretching my fingers—once, twice—testing the fit.
I turned around and smiled at Ares.
He extended the huge jar, showcasing.
I grinned—wide this time—and smacked both of my palms together, a soft, sharp sound. Then pointed lazily toward him.
“Why did you leave his underwear on?” I tilted my head, amused. “Didn’t know you were the shy type, Ares.”
A quiet chuckle slipped out as I stepped forward, taking the large jar and raising it in front of my face.
The three eels inside twisted around one another. Not eager. Not calm either.
Just... waiting.
“No, king. Since you always chop off their bodies, I thought it would be a waste of time,” he replied, monotone as ever, holding an insulated container in the other hand.
I side–eyed him.Scowled.
Then looked back at the eels. They were alive, yes, but not exactly fighting to escape their glass prison—more like resigned to their fate.
“Get him naked and prepare him,” I muttered.
Ares placed the container down and moved toward the boy.
That sorry excuse for a boy let out a scream—honestly, it was so cartoonish, so ridiculously squeaky, it was almost funny.
Then he tried to crawl away like a scared little bug.
....Weirdo.
Ares grabbed his ankle and dragged him back like a sack of trash.
I turned on my heel, heading toward the table. Placing the jar down, I grabbed the isolation gown and slipped it on.
Behind me, the room exploded into a symphony of slaps, groans, cries, and the occasional frantic kick.
I gave the jar a small, quick shake, noticing the eels looked dead and dizzy.How tragic.
But then—oh, the show—reaction came.
The eels thrashed wildly, untwisting themselves, wiggling and panicking like tiny, slimy dancers caught in a nightmare.
Ah,how adorable.
“Did he also use a rod while he raped?” I murmured, setting the jar down on the table and waited a second.
Silence swallowed the room, thick and expectant.
Then—thwack.
A dull, heavy sound. Followed by a strained cough.
Ugh.Answer enough.
Opening the drawer and I pulled out a pure metal butt plug, roughly the size of my hand.
“A hockey stick,” Ares said.
I popped the jar lid open, stepping back a bit, dragging my tongue slowly over my canine teeth as the eels twisted inside, their wriggling picking up speed.
Then, just as I’d expected, after fifteen seconds one eel launched itself, sliding slick and fast out of the jar, hitting the floor with a wet sound, writhing, disoriented.
I slammed the lid down and tightened it with a snap that seemed to echo through the room.
The eel thrashed on the floor, wriggling forward, slicking itself with dirt.
I scooped it up, cradling it like a spoiled pet, cooing softly, “What a shame that you have to—” I paused, turning the writhing creature toward Matthew. “Touchthis vermin.”
He didn’t answer. Just stared in utter horror.
His hands were tied behind his back, completely naked.
“I hate it when animals have to touch these creatures, but it’s necessary,” I snickered, strolling over to Ares. ”Someone’s gotta sacrifice themselves to keep humanity intact, right?”
“He used a hockey stick—dipped in wax,” Ares stepped closer, leaning in to whisper in my ear “From my own collection. He makes them scream his name till their last breath, then stuffs chocolates inside them, leaving a note that says, ‘Here’s your present.’”
I hummed, dripping with utter disappointment and disgust.What a pathetic dickhead.
“Do you think this position is uncomfortable for him, Ares?” I asked, voice dripping with sarcasm as I raised a single eyebrow in mock concern.
Without missing a beat, Ares gave the bastard a sharp kick. The cry that tore out of him was rhythmic, raw, and he rolled over onto his back like a broken doll.
“I apologize, king,” Ares muttered.
That thing groaned, struggling futilely against his binds, his hands useless but his chest pushing up weakly, like some dying caterpillar trying to make a final desperate crawl.
“Let’s start, shall we?” I said, wiggling the eel in my hand with enthusiasm.
Ares gave a close-lipped wide smile and nodded.
Gripping Matthew’s knees, Ares bent them toward his chest, eliciting a loud, strained cry that echoed off the walls.
His ankle thrashed wildly, but since his upper body was restrained and strained, holding his knees up would strain his muscles more.So merciful of us.
“J-seus!! Sorry! I-I am—FUCK—mom!!!”
The words spilled out, broken, tangled—names, apologies, panic all mixed into one pathetic offering.
Tch.
His head slammed against the cold floor, face flushing a painful shade of pink, veins standing out like snakes beneath the skin.
Ares didn’t budge.Not even slightly.
“STO-P IT, YOU PSY-CHOS!” his voice shattered, trembling with spasms and trembling tendons.
I pulled out the butt plug and squatted beside his hips, waving it teasingly in front of him.
“WH—NO...NO! NO! NO! NO!—” In an instant frantic yells shattered into a desperate groan the second Ares pressed his heel just above the boy’s belly button.
“Uugg..gh,” he gritted his teeth tightly, voice strained and loud, “Untie... me, y-y-ou... lunatics!”
Well, well.Looks like he’s an educated prick, considering his vocabulary.
“Why?” Ares asked, frowning as he finally yanked his foot off the boy’s stomach. “Does it not feel good?”
“If you’re a fucking man with dicks—” Matthew spat, his chest heaving, shoulder twisting in a desperate, pathetic resistance. “THEN UNTIE ME AND DO WHATEVER YOU WANT.”
Pressing the tip of the butt plug, against the eel forehead, I sighed deeply in reverence. “δώσε μου την ευχή σου”
Rule number one of life—Always respect and introduce your weapons to each other before using them.
“Well, you reap what you sow, right?” Ares taunted, smirking like the naive bastard he was.
I leaned a little to the side, grimacing at the sight of Matthew’s privates— flaccid, bruised, a broken joke.Blegh.
“Please! Don’t do it—I am a fucking kid!” he panicked, writhing, dragging his hips back, bucking wildly but uselessly. “DON’T DO IT, DON’T DO IT!”
“Hey, do I look like someone who can’t differentiate between a kid and rotting waste,” I said calmly.
I gripped the handle of the butt plug, the cold metal pressing mercilessly against his asshole.
“WH—NO! SIR! SIR! PLEASE, I BEG YOU!!”
“Hallelujah, Matthew!” I crowed like a preacher.
“NO-NO-NO-NO—DON’T—”
Then— In one swift, brutal motion, I thrust the plug deep inside him.
“AAA–AGH! MOM! JES–US!!! JE-SUS!!”
It was tight—too tight—but hey! My grip on the handle was tighter than his hole could ever be.
His leg jerked violently, his back arched in a grotesque curve, hips buckling and tightening like a trapped animal.
Even his toes stretched out toward the ceiling in pure agony.
“AAAGGH!! FUCKKK!!! AAGGG!! MOM!!! FUCKKK! FUCK! STOP!” His body convulsed, twitched uncontrollably, a raw, animalistic cry soaked in pain and terror.
I caught Ares smirking down at Matthew.
My gaze dropped to the floor. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and sticky—the skin around his hole torn ragged and raw.
“STOP! STOP! STOP IT! STOP—YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!!—I AM SORRY! I wo-nt—,” he stuttered, voice breaking, the pain clawing at his throat and stealing his words.
I hummed low and deep, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline flood through me, my heart pounding faster.
Should I just pull out a shotgun, wrap the barrel in a blade, struck inside and shoot him?
No.Too easy.Too boring.
“Sorry, Matthew, I’ll be gentle this time,” I cooed, gripping the handle tighter and pushing the plug further in, as if trying to shove the handle itself right through him.
More blood slicked over my gloved fingertips.
“YOU FUCKING BITCH! STOP!! STOP IT!!”His hips buckled and twisted wildly, desperate to roll away from the relentless torment.
And every time he did that, it would pain him more,ifhe just laid without thrashing, the pain could be a bit less, not like it would disappear but you know...
“PLEASE!! PLEASE!! STOP!”
I stood up, placing my right hand firmly on my back, while my other hand held the eel tight. I whistled—a sharp, meaningless note.
Damn, the boy was amess.
His entire body glowed red, slick with sweat and snot. Spit clung to the corners of his panting lips, mucus smudged around his nose, and buckets of tears streamed freely from his eyes.
Ares let go of his calves, letting them fall to the floor with a heavy thud, and dusted his hands like he’d just finished a pleasant chore.
In that moment, Matthew’s eyes bulged out in terror, chest heaving, back arching tightly, stomach puffing out like a wounded animal.
“MOM!” he screamed—more like cursed—his thighs twitching violently in a pathetic display of agony.How utterly dramatic.
I let out a quiet chuckle.
Rule number two of life—You should do Pilates.
He gasped, saliva spraying from his parted lips with every ragged inhale and desperate exhale.
“Ngghhhhh,” he sobbed, his stomach sucking in tighter and tighter each time he tried to move a single muscle below his belly button.
He couldn’t even stretch his feet—hell, not even his toes. Numb and useless.
“Matthew, cooperate with us,” I said, nudging his ankle with my sandal— light, careless— but his leg fell to the other side like a dead chicken head.
I paused.
Blink.
Then a small breath escaped me—almost a laugh.
But his reaction was funny— he let out a gurgling sound, hitting the back of his head against the floor, neck strained as he looked at his legs.
“Should I open the container?” Ares asked, donning his gloves.
“Not yet,” I murmured, my eyes darkening and my heart— Pounding. Fast. Hard. Anticipation tightening its grip.
Everything felt like it was rushing inside me, crawling under my skin, scratching, itching.
I jabbed my finger toward the table, my gaze locked on Matthew’s tear-streaked face.
As he cried, struggling to lift a knee off the ground, his ankle twitching futilely as he tried to roll his body away.
A smirk tugged at my lip, biting it in pure, savage excitement. My palms were sweating inside the gloves. Warm. Damp.
My head felt light—just a little— breath slightly uneven as I swallowed hard.
A taste of something metallic lingered or maybe it was my imagination— hard to tell anymore.
His teary, bloodshot eyes tracked my every move, desperate, wild with the futile hope that maybe—just maybe—someone,anyone, would come crashing through the door to save him.
Or maybe he was frantically plotting how to haul his broken body to his feet and run for the hills.
But deep down, the real thought clawing at his mind was the same aseverypathetic bastard’s in this hellhole:God.Praying, begging for some miracle to drop from the sky and snatch him away from this nightmare.
That’s the human condition,isn’t it?
When they know with every fiber of their being that no one is coming, no one will help, they turn to a god— a thing that gave them brief moments of joy and laughter in their miserable lives.
How utterly delusional.
I stepped forward, placing my hand firmly on his bent knees. His ankle scraped pathetically against the floor, trying to inch upward but freezing in defeat.
Closing his spread legs, I tapped his knees together. “Keep it like this.”
“Please... don’t... I will do anything... plea...se...” His voice cracked— thin, stretched—barely holding shape.
“I will not move an inch, anything but this... No, PLEASE!”
His voice cracked, a desperate plea from a cornered animal.
WooooW!
Really?!!
His asshole was stuffed with a giant metal butt plug, for fuck’s sake.
Every single movement— every single fucking twitch of his teary hole would hurt and he clearly wouldn’tdare tomove.
He’s talking like some obedient mutt.
“Stop, please! I will beg to everyone on my knees—”
Pfffft!
“I don’t even know why I’m like this! I hurt the kids—”
Ares stepped forward, extending a double-headed axe. Clean. Heavy.
“Calm down. I’m not going to chop your leg off, likeyou’reprobably imagining,” I cut in, waving my hand dismissively, chuckling, trying to reassure him.
His eyebrows knitted in terror as he panted, twisting his shoulders, trying to roll onto his stomach for some impossible relief.
His hands— probably numb by now.
I handed the eel to Ares carefully, then took the axe from him. I tested its weight in my hands, moving it back and forth, a slow swing through empty air.
“You know,” I said, almost a whisper, glancing down at Matthew, “most people, when they say ‘I’ll do anything,’ don’t actually meananything.”
A small pause.
I adjusted my grip.
“But I appreciate the enthusiasm.”
Another slow swing.
“And yeah, I’m not doing this for revenge over the dead kids. It’s purely for my peace of mind. So don’t go thinking too highly of me.” I placed the axe casually on his puny, inny-minny dick. “Scream my name, Matthew~”
Suddenly, a long, drawn-out scream tore from his throat as his whole body shook in pure, trembling fear.
Then—
Ares stiffened.
“What the fuck?!” Ares spat, disgust dripping from his voice as that pathetic thing... wet himself.
Yeah.Hepeed.Shamelessly.
Just because I grazed the axe against his dick, not even putting full weight behind it.
Don’t tell me he’s that type of pimp asshole who gets off on these types of things.
I quickly lifted the axe off his dick and set it firmly on his stomach.
“I AM SORRY!!” he cried out, his wails sounding like a baby throwing a tantrum.
“My name is Ace,” I corrected, a sneer tugging at my lips. “Not ‘sorry.’”
Nudging the axe against his stomach, I scoffed. “Come on, you said you’d doanything— then fucking scream.”
Ares shifted beside me, his tone edged with irritation.
“Why are you asking him, king? Just—” he stopped, exhaling sharply,“Cut it off.”
“Λοιπόν, ακόμα κι αν δεν σέβεσαι τη ζωή, σέβεσαι πάντα όσους δεν θα ζήσουν(Well, even if you don’t respect living, always respect those who won’t live),” I said, voice low, steady.
That’s rule number three.My mother’s favorite.
Repeated so often it stopped sounding like advice and started sounding like...instruction.
“Matthew—” I sighed, deeply making him pant harder immediately, snort slipping through his lips.“Scream.”
The sigh wasn’t even for him.
It was for me.
“Okay, okay, okay—wait, wait, wait—” he babbled, words stumbling over each other as he sucked in sharp, desperate breaths, eyes glued to his stomach.Coward.
“Ace,” he breathed, low and clear, finally looking up. Straight at me.
...
No.Absolutelynot.Uggh.
I felt something twist in my stomach— appalled, revolting.
I am going to throw up.
“Go on,” I urged, teeth clenched tight.“Go fucking on.”
His eyes darted—back and forth—between the axe and me.
“Ace... Ace! Ace! Ace!” he shouted.
Loud.
Desperate.
I grimaced openly this time, lips curling in visible disgust.
I feel— violated.
Deeply.Spiritually.
This is harassment.
This isauditory assault.
“Good,” I said flatly. “More like hella perfect.”
I pulled the axe off his stomach and set it down on the floor.
Not because I was done—
but because I needed a second.
To recover.
My unstained name is stained.
He paused, drawing a short, deep breath for a fleeting second before continuing.
I felt the urge to scrape my ears clean.
Stepping aside, I rolled the axe in my hand, a lazy, deliberate motion.
“Isn’t he such an obedient vermin, Ares?”
Ares murmured, “Yeah...” rolling his eyes. “so fucking much.” Flat. Unimpressed.
I bit my lower lip, a slow smile forming as I looked down at Matthew’s face.
My gaze flicked briefly to Ares.
Ares had a soft spot for babies and children—his only weakness. Today, though, his fiery enthusiasm was fed more by hate than excitement.
Then—
In one swift motion, I spun the axe a full 360 degrees, the handle gliding across my palm—smooth, practiced and brought it crashing down.
Clang.
A sound— Sharp. Metallic. bouncing off walls, looming into ears.
The axe slicing through his skin and bone in a clean, merciless cut.
His right leg fell, straightening like a broken puppet, His breath hitched—a small, broken hk—
Lips parting—then freezing—
Eyes widening as they locked on mine.
I wiggled my eyebrows at him.
Go on.Process it.Catch up.
Looking down, I saw his toes sprawled in on the floor, blood leaking steady and thick.
Damn.A clean cut.
A thin, crooked grin spread across my face—not wide yet— just enough to show teeth.
I straightened my back, rolling my shoulder as I lifted the axe again, letting blood slide down the blade like a crimson banner.
Then— it hit him.
“AAAAAHHHHHH!”
There it is– Loud. Raw. Unfiltered.
Not even words anymore—just sound—
“AAH—AAAGH—NNNGH—”
“Scream my fucking name!” I snapped, almost laughing now, the grin stretching too far—too sharp.
Smacking his own head against the floor, his whole body jerked and shook with those broken, uneven cries that tore through the silence.
I lifted the axe again and lowered it toward his left toes.
and his reaction spiked instantly.
His screams escalated, raw and ragged, nearly choking him, matching the frantic thrashing of his other leg.
Suddenly, his breath hitched—short, uneven—
Fuck.
“He’s going into shock,” Ares murmured.
I clicked my tongue in annoyance.
Of course he is.
Always when it starts getting interesting.
With a sharp toss, I threw the axe away—it hit the floor and slid a little, the echo dragging across the room.
Squatting beside him as his eyes started to roll back, lids fluttering.
Gripping his shoulder, I rolled him over and untied his hands. They fell limply to the floor.
Rolling him onto his back again, I grabbed a fistful of his damp hair and lifted his head slightly.
His neck barely held.
I tapped his cheek.
Once.
Twice.
Then firmer in repeated taps.
His head lolling with each hit.
“Hey, hey, Matthew, wake the fuck up,” I muttered, voice sharper now. “I promised you, remember—”
Ares stepped in, extending a mug of water
“I will send you to your family after this,” I continued, tone almost coaxing. “If you sleep now, you’re the one breaking the promise.”
His eyes fluttered almost closed, breath slowing dangerously.
“Don’t do that,” I muttered under my breath. “That’s rude.”
I threw the water onto his face—hard.
His body jerked faintly—
a weak groan slipping out as his head dropped back again.
At some point—maybe my taps turned into firm smacking.
I tightened my grip in his hair and shoulder, hauling him upright into a sitting position.
Ares stepped behind him, his body slumped against his leg weakly.
Holding Matthew’s head up by his hair, I continued slapping his face—this time more like sharp, stinging slaps, not the firm smacks before.
“Ah... come on,” I groaned, irritation bleeding through. “Wake up.”
“I don’t like babysitting,” I added flatly.
Then—
A loud gagging voice heard. “GHK—!”
Great.Progress.
I let go of his hair, watching instead.
“Hurgh—kuhhlghh—!”
With whatever energy he had, his body launched forward, vomit flying out of his mouth at full speed.
“Nh—ghk—” His hand flew to his throat, fingers clawing, as his body jerked with every violent bursts.
His body slumped back again, hitting Ares’ legs, breaths coming in uneven, broken pulls.
Raising his trembling hands, he gripped his hip, scratching and gripping the skin there.
“A-Ahh-hh—” he let out a cry as he stared down at his feet—wait, no T. No toes. Because, of course, T stands for Toes
Staring at his fee.Pfft.
“Lea-ve!...Sto-p.. leav-e...Me” His voice cracked, weak and tired.
Ares and I exchanged one of those looks.
You know the kind—half amusement, half “oh, this is getting good.”
His hair—slick with sweat and dirt—was the only thing left to grab.
I wrapped my fingers around it tight, a grip like a vice that promised pain, and he started thrashing, a futile storm of “NO, NO, NO, NO, NO–” spilling from his lips like a broken mantra.
I began dragging him, the sweaty strands slipping under my fingers, forcing me to tighten again and again, my skin burning from the strain.Irritating.
“Leave me!! MOM! MOM!!” He screamed, his leg kicking wildly, fingers clawing at the floor like that desperate scratching could stop me.
I stopped at the door, finally letting go. His hand flew up, clutching his hair, wailing.
“Get that.”
Ares nodded.
I glanced down, catching Matthew’s hand sliding low between his thighs. Letting out a guttural groan, back twitching in a desperate attempt to yank out the stubborn butt plug.
I clenched his hair again, eliciting a strangled, pathetic cry.
Then, with a casual flick, I pressed the button on the wall. The door slid open with a sharp ping, and I dragged him inside.
In an instant the smell of hot tar, grease, and damp concrete wrapped around us, clinging to the air the way a hand closes around a throat without squeezing.
“I clearly pushed it too deep,” I spat, smirking. “Too deep for a single tug to fix.Unlessyou want to tear your hole more, you nitwit.”
The hairs on my arms stood up, anticipation prickling like static.
I released his hair, and he dropped face-first onto the heated floor— a dull, hollow impact swallowed by the low hum of machines and the sick hiss of boiling fluids.
I rolled him over onto his back. A trail of whimpers spilled from his trembling lips.
He gasped, clutching his neck like breathing itself might betray him, eyes darting frantically around the room.
I crossed to the table, fingers curling around a coil of rope.
Back to him. I grabbed his shoulders and yanked him upright so hard he sputtered, a spoonful of spit flying from his cracked lips.
His breaths came ragged, every inhale a battle against the fire raging in his shredded, swollen asshole.
I seized his hands, binding them tight. No resistance. Just trembling, begging—because by now, he knew.
Resistance would cost him pain and nothing else.
“I-I-I will see m-my f-family again, right?” he stuttered—no,shuttered—like something inside him kept slamming shut between each word.
I didn’t answer.
I just kept tightening the rope.
And looked him dead in the eye.
“Your family will see you.”
A clean answer.Technicallycorrect.
I patted his head—Light. Almost gentle—My hand slid down to his cheek, thumb brushing across it, slow.
I was grinning ear to ear. Couldn’t help it. My pupils had gone wide, drinking in every micro-expression flickering across his face.
Then—
SMACK—! SMACK—! SMACK—! SMACK—!
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
His head snapped back with the last one, lolling like a ragdoll.
I gripped his nape — fingers digging into the base of his skull — and hauled him back upright.
He blinked. Rapidly, desperately, like his eyes were trying to reboot him.
His chest heaving in these short, useless little gasps. Both hands flew up to his ears and his lip was doing that poor trembling thing.
Deep, ugly cries were crawling up out of his throat. The kind that start somewhere in the stomach.
My four fingerprints were stamped into his cheeks.Clear. Reddish.
I tilted my head and studied him for a second.Almost artistic,honestly.
“King.”
Ares’ voice came from behind me
I glanced back.
He’d set the container down and was holding the eel carefully in one hand.
I reached down and gripped the end of the rope, rolling it once around my palm to feel the roughness of it. Good.
Then I stood, took five measured steps back — one, two, three, four, five — and let the rope begin to move.
Slow at first. A lazy circle.Almost meditative,if you were into that sort of thing.
I wasn’t, particularly. But I liked the buildup.
The way the rope went from a loose, sloppy arc into something tight and humming, a perfect circle slicing through the air with its own momentum now.
Ares was already moving. He jogged to the far side, scaled the wooden ladder in about four steps, reached the top, and looked back at me. Gave me a thumbs up.
One swing.
The rope sailed out — clean, straight — and threaded itself through the hoop hanging from the ceiling
And Ares, without hesitation, launched himself off the ladder, caught the trailing end mid-air, and landed on both feet.
Walking away, I peeled off the protective sheets one by one, then gripped the drum handle and started dragging it across the floor.
The drum scraped against the concrete —scrrrrkkk— low and grating.
Irritating.Genuinely, deeplyirritating.
I made a mental note to get rubber feet put on the bottom of it.
I positioned it two feet from Matthew and straightened up.
That dumbass was crawling away.
I watched him for a moment,genuinelycurious how far he thought he was going to get.
The door was locked. His legs weren’t working properly. And I was standing right here. I am offended.
Still. Points for effort, I suppose.
Gripping the eel, which was beside the container, wiggling itself in the dirt.
I grabbed a fistful of Matthew’s hair and threw him back.
The screech he let out was impressive. High and raw and completely unself-conscious.
He landed hard, and I crouched down in front of him, pushing his legs apart, and took a slow look.
Swollen. Reddened. A trail of blood running down.
I smacked my lips.
“Bare minimum,” I murmured, mostly to myself.
For someone like him,thisbarely counted as a torture.
“Plea-se—” His voice cracked immediately. Tied hands came up, fingers laced together, clasped like he was praying.Maybe he was.
“Take it out. Ithurts.I’ll give you anything — anything you want, just—” A sob broke through the middle of it. “Please. Please leave me. My mom — she’s the o-only... living in this w-world b-because of me.”
I tilted my head. Sat with that for a second.
Then I let out a long, slow sigh — deep, from the chest — and tapped the eel lightly against the top of his head.
“Your mom,” I said, “is only living because ofyou." I smiled. Genuinely.
“That’s so great. What a beautiful bond. Truly. Son and mother, tethered together by love and purpose and — God, it’s moving, really.”
He stared at me.
“Anything else?” I asked pleasantly.
“...Huh?” His brow scrunched up, like the question had short-circuited something behind his eyes.
I rested my elbow on my knee and let out a soft chuckle.
“Ahhh. Look — I listened. I acknowledged it. Icongratulatedyou on your lovely relationship with your mother.” I gestured vaguely with the eel.
“What more do you expect from me? A card? A balloon?”
“No — no, wait—” He shook his head frantically, hands coming up again. “I’m not bragging, I swear, I just—”
My fingers found the handle of the plug.
His words dissolved instantly. Every muscle in his body went rigid with terror.
“Or....” I let the word stretch out, tilting my head the other way, genuinely considering it.
“Are you bragging? Is that what this is?” I gritted the words out slowly, each one deliberate.
“You have a mother. And on top of that —Adding salt to my wounds— you have a good relationship with her. Rubbing it in. Really twisting the knife, Matthew.” I clicked my tongue.“That’s so cruel and cheap.”
“That’s not what I me —Mgghh—"
My fingers curled tight around the handle. One swift pull.
His hand gripped a fistful of his stomach skin and twisted. Then the scream came — full-throated,wholehearted, the kind that empties a person out completely.
I could see the skin of his throat vibrating against the sound, pulled taut, every tendon standing out.
His toeless foot scraped and dragged against the floor in these short, helpless little spasms.
I stayed crouched there, watching.
Beautiful.
Just — cruelly beautiful.
Without wasting any more minutes— because really, what’s the point of theater without momentum?— I struck the eel inside him and gave a hard thrust, making him jerk uncontrollably.
“GOD — STOP! STOP!STOP!" He was banging his head against the ground. Literally. Forehead to concrete, over and over, in this rhythmic, desperate percussion.
His eyes had gone wide and glassy, bulging out in a way that was — honestly — alittlemedically concerning.
I watched him for a moment.
Tcchhh...He’s trying to knock himself out.
The head-banging wasn’t panic.
It was strategy.Crude, blunt, self-destructive strategy — but strategy nonetheless.
Turning away from him, I walked to the double-sealed container and crouched in front of it. Opened it very cautiously.
The hiss of depressurization heard and fog rolled out immediately, cold air hitting my face in one sharp, clean smack.
And there, resting at the bottom like it owned the place — thin, red, perfectly still — was the worm.
A long, slow chuckle pulled itself up out of my chest.
I opened the first glass layer. Then the second. Reached in and retrieved the long-handled forceps, cool and precise in my grip.
Lowered them carefully —carefully— and closed them around it with the kind of gentleness I’ve never once extended to a human being.
Slowly, I stood.
Held it up. Turned it slightly in the light.
Genuinely,Fascinating.
The way it moved — barely, just a faint, almost imperceptible shift — like it was thinking. Like it was patient.
“It’s dangerous, King.”
Ares’ voice — right in my ear. Not from across the room. Not from a reasonable, socially acceptable distance.
His lips were actually, physically brushing against my ear as he said it.Bastard.
“Tape,” I murmured, not turning my head.
He pulled back.
I turned around to check on Matthew and my smile dropped clean off my face.
Then I snorted.
Then it became a laugh. A real one, deep and involuntary, punched out of me before I could compose myself.
He hadwiggled away.
Somehow —with an eel still inside him, with his hands bound, with everything— this cockroach had wiggled himself across the floor and was now slumped against the drum.
But themainthing — the truly unhygienic thing — was that he had, again, peed himself. And vomited on himself.
Simultaneously, or close enough to it that the distinction didn’t matter.
He was sitting in the combined wreckage of his own mess, crying, trembling, making these small rocking motions, like a child trying to self-soothe.
His hand had found the eel’s tail and was gripping it. White-knuckled. But the eel flailed and writhed against him, and he wasn’t pulling it out.
Not because he physically couldn’t.
Because he couldn’t.
His eyes were drowning in it.
Fear, uncertainty, something that had gone past both of those into a place that doesn’t really have a name.
A thin rope of snot hung from his nose, swaying slightly as he breathed in these shallow, rapid little pulls.
And he was saying two words. Just two, over and over, like a broken frequency.
“Mom. Jesus. Mom. Jesus. Mom—”
I’m having déjà vu.
I crouched in front of him, gripped his cheek between my fingers and forced his jaw open.
“Ughhh — UGmm — hh m-hp—” He twisted against my hand, trying to wrench his face away
I looked at his eyes. Still bulging. Straining outward.
Maybe I should’ve plucked them out earlier. At this rate they’re going to fall out on their own and save me the trouble.
“Sayahhh," I coaxed.
My lips were actually hurting from smiling.
The corners, specifically — that tight, stretched ache you get when you’ve held an expression too long.
I couldn’t help it.I’d tried.Looking at him made it physically impossible to stop.
He slapped both tied hands up against his mouth — clumsy, desperate, muffled sounds pushing out from behind his palms, some kind of plea.
Then — a knife.
It appeared from somewhere to my left and drove itself straight through his hands, clean and sudden.
My eyes flinched. Just slightly.
"For fuck’s sake," Ares grumbled from beside me.
Matthew’s hands lowered in agony.The scream that came out was muffled — choked back by shock, by whatever was left of his self-preservation instinct — and his spit and vomit transferred immediately onto my hand as his mouth fell open.
Yuucck.
I dug my fingers harder into his cheek — felt the inside of his mouth against my knuckles — and tilted his head back. Raised it. Held it steady.
And then, slowly —slowly— I lowered the forceps toward his open mouth.
He pulled back. Hard. His skull knocked against the drum behind him with a dull, resonantthud, his whole face straining against my grip, neck tendons standing out like cables, every muscle in his jaw fighting me.
It didn’t matter.
The worm slid inside his mouth — unhurried, indifferent, patient in the way that only very small and very dangerous things can be.
As soon as I withdrew my hand from his cheek.
Then—
Ares, diligent as ever — and I do meandiligent, the man treats duct tape like a religious practice — smacked a strip directly across Matthew’s mouth. Hastily. Efficiently.
“Feels good, huuh! You pathetic fucker!” he laughed at his face.
I raised an eyebrow.
Because he didn’t stop at one strip. He went around twice — two full rounds, pressing the edges down with his thumbs like he was gift-wrapping something — and then, in the same motion, reached down andvery, very rudelyripped his knife out of Matthew’s hand.
Matthew made a sound behind the tape.
“The worm is poisonous,” Ares said, straightening up and scratching his cheek with the flat of the knife.
“Sucks blood.” He smiled, a little awkwardly, glancing at me. “No way in hell I’m letting it come back out.”
“Mmm.”
We both looked down at Matthew at the same time.
Our brows furrowed at the same time.
He was having a stroke.
What a shame.
A proper one, by the look of it — eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, legs scraping against the concrete in these short, stuttering arcs, hands curled inward and twitching with a rhythm that had nothing to do with intention. His head was moving on its own.
“That’s enough for him, I think, King,” Ares mumbled, folding his arms. He paused. “I apologize that you couldn’t use the drum — ”
What a fucking shame.
“Where did you find him?” I cut him off, tossing the forceps. They clattered somewhere behind me.
Ares blinked. “A café. For about a week I watched him — he kept troubling this little girl, wouldn’t leave her alone, so I did some digging on him and — ”
“I get it,” I said.
“Tie a bow around his neck,” I added. “And deliver him to his mother. After all—” I smiled, slow and easy—“she can’t live without him.”
Ares opened his mouth. “What about the wo—”
“Let’s give her a present,” I continued, pulling off my gloves one finger at a time. “Stuffed with something other than candies. Dress him up nice. Soft.”
A sneer chuckle moved through my chest, quiet and unhurried. I balled up the gloves and dropped them into the dustbin, then shrugged off the gown and let it follow.
I walked out of the door.
“Can I leave a note also?!” Ares called behind me.
I waved my hand without turning around.
The bathroom was cool and still. I pushed the door open and stopped in front of the mirror, looking down at myself first before looking up.
“Hmm.”
No blood. Not a drop — not on the shirt, not along the cuffs, not on shoes or on face. No smell, either. Nothing clinging.
I turned the tap on and worked the handwash into a lather — methodical, unhurried — and then my ears caught it.
Uneven. Slight drag.
Ah...
“Capo.”
I hummed.
Ivan was standing in the doorway, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, clearing his throat in that repeated, compulsive way
He’d thrown up. Obviously. Again.
I frowned and walked past him, drying my hands on my handkerchief as I moved into the hallway.
“Vorrei un aumento di stipendio (I want a raise in my salary),” he said, falling into step beside me, a file tucked under his arm.
“Perché (Why?)” I murmured, heading for the stairs.
The darkness swallowed us both as we climbed — that particular thick, swallowing dark of the lower levels, where the walls were close and our voices echoed back.
My own heartbeat was still running a little fast. Matthew’s screams still looming inside my ears. I could feel the faint slick of sweat forming across my nape.
“Ho visto in che condizioni era il bambino e quel pazzo se lo stava vestendo allegramente come se fosse Halloween! (I saw the little boy’s condition and that freak was happily dressing him up like it was Halloween season!)”
He grumbled something else under his breath, shaking his head. “Vedere questo genere di schifezze mi sta logorando la mente e la salute. Solo i soldi possono darmi sollievo. (Seeing this type of shit is affecting my mind and health. Only money can soothe it.)”
“Perché sei sceso, se sapevi che avresti vomitato di nuovo in modo patetico, Ivan Smith?(Why did you come down, when you knew you would pathetically throw up again, Ivan Smith?),” I snickered, the words coming out dry and flat.
It wasn’t really a question.
He sighed — long, suffering, theatrical. “Sono venuto per darvi la buona notizia che abbiamo nuovamente firmato il contratto con il signor Thomas (I came to give you good news that we again got the contract signed with Mr. Thomas).”
I blinked as we stepped through the office door, the sudden brightness of the room hitting my eyes like a flat hand to the face.
The muffled sounds of the building filtered back in — distant voices, very faint thudding noise, and more noises.
A tiffin box was sitting on my desk.
“Melinda ti ha mandato la colazione(Melinda sent you the breakfast)” he informed, pursuing his lips.
“Continuo a non capire (I still don’t get it)” Ivan muttered, extending the file open to the relevant page. “Come tu e quel tipo strano riuscite a sopportare quelle scene grottesche (How that freak and you can handle those grotesque scenes.)”
I took the pen. Signed. Turned the page, signed again. Flipped to the cheques, signed those too as he rambled.
I let out a quiet chuckle somewhere in the middle of it.
Because we aren’t the same as you.We were never the same as any of you.
Ivan took the file back, straightened his jacket, and walked toward the door.
He paused at the threshold, turned back to give a small wave and pulled the door shut behind him. “Buh-bye.”
The office went quiet.
Ares and Ivan don’t have a good relationship.
Considering they both are my right and left command, they do their job diligently but they both complain about each other’s work ethics and morals.
If I left them in a room together unsupervised, I’d come back to find one strangled with the other’s necktie.
Ares thinks Ivan is a pipsqueak. Too soft. Too squeamish. Too many feelings about things that don’t have feelings back.
Ivan thinks Ares is a rabid dog. Too loud. Too messy. Too much enthusiasm for activities that are supposed to be clinical.
They’re both correct.
Together they’re bothinsufferable.
But they’re both mine— which means I have to listen to both of them complain about each other.
“He killed him before I could extract some infos.”
“This pimp threw up on my shoes.”
“He doesn’t respect me.”
“He doesn’t respect my way of working.”
On and on and on.
Well, the only reason Ivan had the right to step up to this position was because he’s intelligent.
Yes. Painfully,annoyinglyintelligent.
The kind of intelligence that sees patterns before they emerge, that smells a trap from three zip codes away, that can make money multiply like a hen lays eggs—slow, steady, and daily.
The violence, though. That was always going to be his ceiling.
It’s a very fatal flaw in this particular field of work — not a disqualifying one, but fatal in the sense that it would always limit him.
You can’t fully understand a world you can’t stomach looking at.
Intelligence without a stomach for the mess of things is like a polished blade that’s never drawn.Sharp. Admired.
And entirely useless when something actually needs cutting.
I lowered myself down to the floor, back against the sofa, and opened the tiffin boxes one by one, arranging them in front of me, neatly.
Four boiled eggs. Two whole, two whites. A bowl of Greek yogurt with honey and walnuts. Small serving of oats. Banana. A few dates and black coffee.
I leaned forward to reach the yogurt and a gauging soreness throbbed hard against my hip — sudden enough that I stilled for a second, eyes flinching.
Pressed my thumb against the spot through the fabric, slow and deliberate — it was yellowish, almost healed.
That punch was good.
Where was it...— right. New Zealand.
It was a woman in her 20′s— An assassin, trained, probably well-paid— had technique, precision, and intent.
I could have admired her for it, honestly. I was considering it, in the half-second between the impact and what came next.
There was a brief moment—very brief—where I considered recruiting her.
But too bad she didn’t live long enough to hear the compliment because—the stylus pen was already in my hand.
And it went into her throat before either of us had finished deciding what happened next.
She made a sound — wet, choked, almost gurgle— and that was it.
I straightened my back against the sofa, and I started to eat.
The room was very nice and still. My own chewing filled my ears as I stared at the wall ahead of me. Blank. Off-white. A small scuff near the baseboard that had been there for months.
My ears perked up.
Heavy footsteps. Faint at first, then closer. Uneven. Weighted.
The door swung open.
Ares stepped out, sweating through his shirt, Matthew slung across his shoulders like a piece of luggage. Casual pants, a plain shirt — he’d dressed him.
He let out a deep sigh—long, dragged and walked, unhurried, leaving a thin trail of blood dotting the floor behind him in a loose, irregular line. Like a trail of breadcrumbs.
I trailed the blood spots for half a second.
Then took another bite.
The door shut behind him. Loud. Hard.
I glanced at it, again and I continued eating.
It took me another fourteen minutes to finish and then I washed the utensils in the small sink by the window, dried them, and packed the tiffin boxes back into the bag with the same neatness I’d unpacked them with.
I dried my hands.
Reached into my jacket pocket and took out the meds. Three tablets.
Then I popped them all at once and washed them down with the last of the warm water.
I turned the bottle over.
Empty.
I leaned back slightly, exhaling through my nose.
Tch.
Looks like I’ll have to go tohim.
The royal highness.
How... exhausting.
For fuck’s sake— he wouldn’t even hand them over if I sent Ares.
No.Of course not.
He’d insist— Eye contact. Conversation. Obedience.
Agh...What a sicko.
