Page 203 of Traitor

I shoot him a glare. "I already told you — it's too fucking messy, and it leaves too much evidence."

He throws his hands up. "Not if we—"

I don't wait to hear the rest. I'm done here.

Stepping out of The Fun House, I roll my shoulders, letting the tension bleed from my muscles. The fresh air wraps around me as I pull my phone from my back pocket.

I hit dial. The call connects.

I only need to say one word.

"Nemesis."

36. Nemesis

The hallways were cloaked in a thick, oppressive darkness, shadows stretching across cold, damp concrete walls. Silence lay heavily over the prison like a burial shroud. Forty-three pairs of eyes snapped open simultaneously, pupils dilated in the inky gloom. Each man's breath remained steady, synchronized, as though their lungs had rehearsed this moment for years.

Hands moved beneath pillows in perfect unison, retrieving instruments of silent death. Each blade was small, thin, and cruelly sharp — crafted meticulously from patience and smuggled steel. Fingers curled around familiar grips, knowing every groove, every edge, every lethal possibility. No hesitation marred their movements. No tremor betrayed any lingering humanity.

One by one, their bodies rose, a dark tide spilling silently across each cell. Bare feet touched the cold stone without a whisper of sound. Eyes were vacant, hollow voids devoid of any remorse. They moved as one, specters haunting the mortal realm, their souls already claimed by something far darker than the night.

Green was indeed far more valuable than red, more enticing than futile, pleading gasps. Blood was merely pennies here, spent without thought or care. Shadows stretched deformed behind them, a haunting echo of the carnage they would soon unleash.

Steel bars stood silent sentinel, indifferent guardians that had long forgotten mercy. They watched impassively, unwilling to betray the grim dance of death unfolding behind them.

Each blade found its mark in unison — a symphony of precise violence, a perfect execution in every sense. Arteries opened beneath steel, spilling ruby secrets onto thin, worn mattresses. Mouths opened, but no screams emerged, only choked, gurgling whispers swallowed by darkness. Seconds became lifetimes, and within each fading heartbeat, a soul was extinguished.

The forty-three cells in seven prisons remained still as the dying whispered their final, unheard prayers. One by one, life faded from wide, desperate eyes, cut short beneath blades wielded with clinical detachment.

In mere moments, it was done. Silence returned, deeper than before. Forty-three pairs of eyes stared down into emptiness, their expressions blank, unaffected by the violence they had created. Slowly, mechanically, they wiped the blood from their blades and returned them to their hidden resting places. Bodies eased back onto bunks, eyes closed once more, hearts steady, as though nothing had transpired.

The darkness embraced them, covering the sins committed in its name. Only the shadows knew the truth, and shadows would speak to no one.

37. Future

Temper

I'm still staring at the TV, jaw slack, trying to process what the fuck I'm seeing, when Bones walks inside my house.

"Ria sent you some weird-ass cake to try from the shop, baby," he calls casually, like the world isn't currently losing its shit on live news.

I don't even acknowledge him. I can't tear my eyes away from the screen.

"Baby?" His voice dips lower, more alert now. A second later, his fingers are under my chin, gently turning my face toward him. "What's wrong?"

I don't answer. I just lift a hand and point at the TV.

The bold, flashing headline slashes across the screen in big, capital letters.

MASS EXECUTION IN PRISON — 43 MEMBERS OF CRIMSON RIDERS DEAD OVERNIGHT.

Forty-three. All of them.

I swallow hard, my voice barely above a whisper. "Bones... what did you do?"

Do I celebrate? Do I panic? I don't fucking know.

He glances at the TV for half a second, then his attention is back on me, completely unfazed. "Served justice." His voice is even, calm, like he's telling me about the weather. "It was in the works since day one. Over five years of planning. Waiting. Greasing hands to move around cellmates until the right ones were in place. Then waiting some more — years — before giving the order."

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