Page 93 of Wicked Fury

The SUV crunches to a halt. We’re behind the old faculty buildings, places forgotten by renovation budgets and student foot traffic.

“Out,” I command, my hand already on the door handle. Nick scrambles from the back seat, his pallor ghostly under the weak moonlight.

He leads us to a small door, half-hidden by an overgrowth of ivy, its tendrils like desperate fingers clinging to the rotting wood. A stench of mildew assaults my nostrils as the door creaks open, revealing a room swallowed by shadows.

Inside, the air is stagnant, tasting of dust and decay. Something skitters in the corner—a rat, probably, making its home among the ruins of the forgotten. But it’s what’s in the center of the room that roots me to the spot.

“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath as my gaze sweeps across the room. It’s a shrine, all right, but not the kind you’d ever want to find dedicated to you. Pictures of me plastered on every possible surface, candlelight casting long shadows over my inked arm, making my tattoos seem like they’re shifting, alive.

Candles flicker, casting eerie light on a shrine grotesque in its devotion. Photos of Iris, their edges curled, and faces scratched out, form a chaotic collage. There’s a lock of hair, the color unmistakably hers, tied with a ribbon and placed at the foot of a cracked mirror. It’s an altar to obsession, every item a violation, and my gut twists with revulsion.

I step closer, the light catching the glint of something metallic. Dart after dart protrudes from Iris in the photos, her eyes scratched out so violently that the paper is torn. It’s like some twisted form of worship, and my stomach twists in response. My smile is nowhere to be found now, replaced by a tightening jaw that aches with the urge to smash something.

“Jesus,” Penn mutters, his usual sarcasm nowhere to be found.

“Nicole’s handy work?” Graham’s voice is low, dangerous.

“Y-yeah,” Nick stammers out, edging away from us, from the madness he’s unveiled.

I feel the anger boiling within, hot and relentless. “No more games. No more running.” My attention is locked onto the shrine, each breath fueling the inferno inside me. “It ends here.”

“Damn right,” Graham agrees, his fists clenching.

“Let’s find that bitch.” The words are ice, a promise of the storm to come.

Nick’s eyes dart like he’s looking for an out, but there ain’t one—not here, not now. Graham steps closer to him, a silent predator.

“Nick,” I say, my voice a low growl, “you’ve been real helpful.”

Nick’s nod is frantic, eager to please. “Yeah, Lincoln, anything for you guys?—”

He doesn’t see it coming. Graham’s hands whip out, a blur of motion, and there’s a sound like a branch snapping in the winter. It echoes off the walls, a death knell that seals Nick’s fate.

Nick crumples to the ground, lifeless. The finality of the act hangs heavy in the air, and I feel a dark satisfaction curl inside me. Graham looks at me, no remorse in his eyes whatsoever. The message is clear: necessary evils.

“Let’s go find the crazy one, and that’s saying a lot coming from me,” Penn says, stepping over the body without a glance down.

We move through the building. When we finally come upon Nicole, she’s skulking in darkness like some cornered animal.

“Nicole,” I drawl her name like it’s filth on my tongue, “you’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

Her eyes are wild, but there’s nowhere left to run. She clutches at Iris’ locket around her neck, as if they will protect her. It won’t, it only serves to anger me more.

“Lincoln, please—” she starts, her voice quivering with false innocence.

“Shh,” I silence her with a finger to my lips. “You had your fun, didn’t you? Playing your sick little games.”

“Lincoln, I—I love you. You don’t understand!”

“Love?” I chuckle, the sound hollow and cold. “This isn’t love. This is an obsession, and unreciprocated one and it’s toxic.” I step forward, close enough to smell the fear rolling off her in waves.

“Please, I’ll do anything,” she begs, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Too late for deals, Nicole.” My hand shoots out, and I grab the locket, yanking it from her neck. The chain snaps, the sound sharp in the tense silence.

“Consider this a severance package.” I pocket the locket, feeling the metal warm against my skin.

“Y-you’re a monster,” Nicole accuses, but her words lack bite; they’re the last gasps of a drowning woman.

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