Page 29 of Dangerous Beginnings

The room tilts again, the walls closing in. My entire body shakes, but I force myself to stay still. I won’t give him the satisfaction of breaking me. Not yet. Not while I still havesomething left.

As the oppressive weight of the room settles over me, an unbearable mixture of dread and desperation surges through my veins. I can’t let him see how much he’s affected me. I need to fight back, if only to preserve some shred of my own dignity.

I lift my chin defiantly, despite the cold sweat pooling at the base of my neck. My voice, though trembling, carries an edge of reckless courage. “You think you’re so powerful, don’t you?” I spit out the words with a scornful sneer, my voice quivering yet defiant. “You’re just another sadistic coward hiding behind a desk and a gun. How many people have you broken to feel like a big man?”

His eyes narrow dangerously, a flash of rage igniting in their depths. He stands abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. I can almost see his anger pulsing through him, a dark storm swirling around the room. His gaze locks onto me, and I can feel the heat of his fury radiating toward me.

“Coward, am I?” he snarls, his voice dripping with venom. He strides toward me, the sharp click of his shoes on the floor punctuating each step. “You dare to challenge me? To mock me? Do you think you’re special? Just another worthless girl who thinks she can talk her way out of her fate?”

I stare back at him, my chest heaving with a mix of fear and defiance. “And you’re just another monster hiding behind your power. Maybe if you actually had some courage, you’d face the people you hurt instead of taking it out on someone like me.”

His face contorts with rage, his hands clenched into fists. “You think you’re so brave?” His voice is a low, dangerous growl. “You think you’re in control just because you throw some empty words at me? I could snap you like a twig, and you’d be forgotten before you hit the ground.”

His anger seems to build, a dark energy enveloping him. He moves around the desk with swift, angry strides, his eyesgleaming with a twisted, almost sadistic amusement. “Look at you. You think you’re untouchable, that your little act of bravery means anything here? You’re nothing but a scared little girl who’s about to learn the true meaning offear.”

With a sudden, violent motion, he slams his fist onto the desk, sending papers and objects scattering. The force of the impact makes me flinch, my eyes wide with a mix of fear and defiance. He leans in close, his face mere inches from mine, his breath hot and acrid against my skin. “Do you think I’m playing games with you?” he hisses. “Do you think this is some kind of fucking joke?”

I try to steady my breath, my pulse pounding in my ears. “If you’re so desperate to prove how cruel you are, then go ahead. But I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of seeing me break. Not without a fight.” I’m truly terrified, staring into the depths of hell.

His expression darkens, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “A fight? Is that what you want? Fine. I’ll give you a fight.”

He steps back, his anger bubbling over into a twisted amusement.

His eyes are now cold, gleaming with a dark satisfaction as he watches my reaction. “So, go on,” he taunts, his voice sharp with sadistic pleasure. “Keep talking. Keep defying me.”

The flood of anger that has been simmering within me erupts with an almost violent intensity. My cheeks burn with a hot, livid flush, each muscle thrumming with rage. I seize the monitor from the desk. The device feels like a weight of frustration in my hands, and with a swift, unceremonious shove, I send it crashing to the ground. The loud bang reverberates through the room and a shard of glass scatter like brittle stars across the floor. My breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, a storm raging inside me.

As my eyes dart around the room, they land on a second monitor - still perched on the desk. With a primal scream, I swipe it off with a brutal swipe of my arm. The device meetsthe floor with a shattering impact. I grab my own file and tear it apart with savage intensity. The paper rips and shreds under my hands. “You sick motherfucker!” I yell, my voice hoarse with rage. “Who the fuck are you?” My words come out in a torrent, a raw outpouring of every ounce of anger I have felt since I have been done wrong by every single person.

As I finish the sentence, and without warning, I feel a sudden, jolting shift. Before I can react, a rough, strong grip encircles me. An involuntary scream rips from my lips as I am lifted off the floor.

Diable

I have reached the end of my tether. The incessant intrusion of her presence has shattered any remnants of patience I might have had. My mind is clouded with a single, relentless focus: to rid myself of this inconvenience I have made.

I can barely see through the enveloping blackness of my thoughts, a darkness that mirrors the oppressive gloom of the basement I’m headed towards. The weight of her, though physically light, feels burdensome. I grip her tightly, feeling the warmth of her body pressing against my shoulder, juxtaposed against the cold determination driving me forward. My strides are long and filled with purpose, each one driven by a need to escape what she is stirring within me.

As I approach the steel door, I hesitate, just for a moment. It doesn’t last, I open the door with force. The floor is a harsh expanse of cracked, gray concrete, stained with the remnants of countless other disturbances—footprints, spills, and smudges that tell stories of their own. The walls are similarly unyielding, their concrete surfaces pocked and chipped, casting deep shadows that seem to swallow the light. These walls, though solid, seem to absorb every sound, creating an almost suffocating silence that presses in from all sides.

The lighting in the basement is sparse, with flickering fluorescent bulbs mounted high on the ceiling. Their dim, uneven light casts erratic shadows that dance across the floor and walls, creating an unsettling, almost hypnotic effect. The bulbs buzz faintly, their flickering casting a jittery, disorienting aura over the entire space.

I only come here when there’s a mess that needs to be cleaned up, and its sterile environment is meticulously designed to facilitate that process. The basement’s functionality is evident in every detail, designed to make the cleanup of evidence as seamless and thorough as possible. The perfect crime scene.

The sound of her screams fills the air, raw and desperate. It cuts through me like a knife, but I don’t flinch. There’s no room for mercy here. Not with her. Not now.

I drop her onto the cold tiles, the sound of her body hitting them sharp in the silence. The tiles are slick with history, drenched in the memories of those who’ve been here before her. It’s not my first time in this place. I don’t think it’s hers, either. Not the way she’s shaking. Strange.

I don’t have time for her fear to settle, not when I’m in a hurry. My hands are quick, securing her wrists together with cold metal cuffs before she can scramble away. She doesn’t know yet, but she’s already caught.

She struggles. I can hear the tremor in her breath, the frantic sound of her feet scraping against the floor as I lift her into the air. She’s dangling now, helpless, her toes barely brushing the tiles, and it’s exactly what I want. Her body is a tangled mess of fear and defiance, but I’m not done yet. Not by a long shot.

I step back into the shadows, watching her panic, letting her feel the weight of her situation. She won’t escape. Not from me.

Her eyes scan the room like she’s looking for a way out, but there’s nothing for her here. Just weapons, tools, and reminders of what happens when you think you can run. The cuffs bite intoher skin, and I feel a flicker of something—guilt? No. That’s not for me.

She’s still struggling, trying to balance herself on her toes, her breath sharp, her body shaking with the realization of her helplessness. But I don’t care. I can’t care. It’s the only way I can make her understand.

I prepare the gun with meticulous precision, each movement deliberate and controlled. The holster, heavy and cold, rests on the workbench as I methodically detach the gun from it. The metal feels solid in my hands, its weight a stark reminder of the gravity of what’s to come.

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