Page 151 of Boulder's Weight

You name it—broken bones, drawn blood, I’ve even taken lives when necessary. But this is different, it’s the most personal thing I think I’ll ever do.

Inside, Benji is already secured to a metal chair in the center of the concrete floor.

His hands are zip-tied to the armrests, his feet bound to the legs.

Axel and Zorro stand guard, their expressions grim.

They nod when I enter, a silent acknowledgment of what's to come.

"He's all yours," Zorro says, his weathered face giving nothing away. "We'll be outside. Take your time."

"Thanks," I reply, setting down the duffel bag I brought with me.

The clank of metal against concrete makes Benji flinch.

When the door closes behind them, leaving us alone, Benji begins to struggle against his restraints.

It's a futile effort, but I watch him anyway, studying the desperation in his movements, the fear in his eyes.

The man who terrorized Kelsey, who killed Craig, who allied with our enemies—reduced to this.

"Please," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "You don't have to do this."

I remain silent, unpacking my supplies slowly, not shying away from being in his view.

A saw. Antiseptic. Bandages. Tourniquets. I'm not a monster—I don't want him to bleed out. That would be too easy.

"I can give you information," he continues, words tumbling out faster now. "About Sally's network. About her connections. Things you don't know yet."

"Benji, it’s too late for bargaining," I say, my voice calm. "The club has voted."

"My sister wouldn't want this," he tries, a new strategy. "Kelsey—Cady—she's not like you. She wouldn't want her brother mutilated."

At the mention of her name—both names—something shifts inside me.

A coldness, a green light that tells me I won’t be turning back.

"You're right," I acknowledge, pulling up a stool to sit directly in front of him. "She's not like me. She's better. Which is why she's not here. But I am. And I'm going to make sure you never hurt her again."

I roll up my sleeves, methodical, not hurrying in the slightest bit. "Kelsey may forgive you someday. That's who she is. But I won't. That's who I am."

Fear blooms fully in his eyes now as the reality of his situation becomes undeniable. "You can't do this," he says, every bit of strength he had has drained from his voice. "This is torture. This is?—"

"Justice," I finish for him. "For Kelsey. For Craig. For all the lives you've damaged."

I press an antiseptic-soaked cloth against the crook of his elbow, swabbing carefully. He tenses at my touch.

"What are you doing?" he asks, confusion briefly overriding his terror.

"Making sure you don't get an infection," I reply. "Like I said, we don't want you to die. That would defeat the whole purpose."

I prepare a syringe of local anesthetic—just enough to dull the initial pain, not enough to spare him completely.

The club agreed that he should feel what's happening, but we're not savages.

We need him conscious for the whole procedure, aware of each loss.

"This is going to numb the area a bit," I explain, injecting the anesthetic into his wrist. "But you'll still feel pressure, movement. And when it wears off—well, you'll feel everything then."

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