Page 85 of Hero Worship

Misha nodded. “I’ve been ready since the moment they first stuck a needle in my arm.”

I watched understanding flood Roche’s eyes as they fully awakened, realizing they couldn’t move.

“There you are.” I leaned down so they could see my eyes clearly through the mask. “Now, let’s discuss the finer points of your preservation technique, shall we?”

Roche’s eyes darted around frantically as they tested each restraint, finding no give. The paralytic kept them from speaking, but their gaze screamed volumes. Fear. Confusion. The dawning realization that they were about to experience everything they’d inflicted on others.

“You know what the worst part of assisting you was?” Misha said, selecting a scalpel. “The way you would explain every stepto me, every damn time. Like you were lecturing me. Like you thought I wanted to hear all about your sick and twisted thought process.”

I traced one finger along the edge of the table, watching Roche’s eyes track the movement. “Did you ever wonder how it felt to be where you are now? Helpless? Or what was that word you liked so much?” I looked at Misha.

“Obedient,” he supplied.

I snapped my fingers. “That’s the one.”

Misha slashed through Roche’s expensive shirt and their skin in one smooth movement. Blood welled to the surface of Roche’s stomach, staining the fabric of their shirt. Roche’s breath came faster, but that was the only sign he gave of distress. The only sign hecouldgive. All he could do was lay there and passively let us take him apart.

“Have you ever heard of degloving?” I asked, turning over his hand and making a circle around his wrist. “I’m sure you have. You were a fashion designer, after all. Your winter collection two years ago was all aboutgloves. But where gloves go on, degloving involves carefully peeling back the skin and subcutaneous layers. I’ve always wanted to try it.”

I selected a fresh scalpel from the surgical tray. “My brother, Warrick, is a plastic surgeon, you know. He’s been teaching me a few pointers. He says the key is patience. You have to get the depth of the first cut just right. Too shallow and the skin tears. Too deep and you start hitting important stuff. Veins. Arteries. Tendons. And we don’t want that, now do we?”

“If anyone can appreciate the art of precision, it’s him,” Misha said, moving to the other side of the table with a blade of his own.

Terror bloomed in Roche’s eyes as I made the first careful incision around their wrist. Blood welled up immediately in aperfect crimson bracelet. “Look at that. I think I’m starting to understand the whole macabre art angle.”

While I continued my work, Misha prepared another syringe. Roche’s pulse jumped wildly beneath my fingers, though the paralytic ensured they remained still. Their eyes locked onto my hands, unable to look away from their own unmaking.

“I’m ready to administer the first dose of preservation chemicals,” Misha announced.

Roche’s eyes darted to where Misha stood, and he somehow managed a small squeak of sound.

“Will it hurt?” I asked, looking up from what I was doing.

“It’ll be agonizing,” Misha promised.

“Good.” I gestured for him to continue.

Tears spilled from Roche’s unblinking eyes, flowing as freely as the blood flowed from the careful incisions I was making.

Misha and I worked in perfect harmony over the next hour, each of us drawing on our particular expertise. Every cut, every chemical, every careful manipulation of Roche’s body brought us closer to transforming Roche into their own final fashion statement. Their silent tears never stopped flowing, but neither did our methodical work.

“It’s fitting,” Misha said as he administered the final preservative. “That they should become the very thing they forced others to be. Beautiful. Still. Eternal.”

I stepped back to survey our work, a deep feeling of satisfaction settling in my chest. “I think we’ve made our point.”

“More than made it.” Misha sounded exhausted. Vindicated, but exhausted.

We’d positioned Roche exactly as he’d appeared in his now famous newspaper photo, the one that’d accompanied his declaration of innocence. The message would be clear: No one, not even the wealthy social elites, was above the law. Not as long as one of the Laskin siblings was still breathing.

“Well,” I said, wiping a bloody hand across my forehead, “It’s been fun. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.C’est la vie, am I right?”

Misha nodded and slid the final needle into the injection port. Roche’s eyes tracked the movement, understanding exactly what was about to happen to them.

Misha leaned down closer to their ear. “This is for every beautiful soul you silenced. Everyone whose light you put out with chemicals and lies.” His voice cracked slightly. “This is for my father, who died trying to save me. But mostly? This is for me. Burn in hell,suka blyat!”

Misha pushed the plunger down quickly and threw the syringe down before stepping back.

In the end, Roche’s final expression was one of perfect understanding.

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