Page 106 of Mystic's Sunrise

She never fucking learned.

She thought fear would still work on me. That after all this time, I’d still be the man she kept on a leash with her threats and games.

The door buzzed, the mechanical groan loud in the quiet, followed by the solid thump of boots on the floor. I didn’t need to look up to know who walked in.

“Come with me.” The deputy’s voice was flat, bored, like he’d already made up his mind about me.

I stood without a word, let him cuff me again, and followed him down a narrow hallway lined with peeling paint and flickering lights. He didn’t say anything else, just shoved me into a side room that reeked of old sweat, burnt coffee, and institutional decay.

I sat in the metal chair, the legs scraping across the linoleum, and leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on my knees. My wrists were still cuffed, tight and raw, the skin there aching from how long I’d been bound.

But I wasn’t worried.

Devil and Chain were out there. I knew them. Knew how they worked. By now, they’d already started flipping every stone and cornering anyone who owed them a favor. Chelsea’s so called case was nothing but air and venom, a lie so thin it couldn’t hold up to the truth once it came knocking.

The door opened again, and the sheriff entered. Late fifties, maybe older. Worn down by years of small town bullshit and power plays that didn’t quite make him the king he liked to think he was. He sank into the chair across from me with a tired sigh, rubbing a hand down his jaw before leaning forward to press the button on a small recorder sitting between us.

Then, without warning, my own voice filled the room.

I froze.

The air in my lungs turned sharp.

A breath—mine—jagged and uneven.

“No—fuck, get away—”

A crash. Something shattering.

Then came my breathing again—panicked, strained—like I was trapped beneath a weight I couldn’t throw off.

Another clip.

“I said get the fuck back—!”

Something slammed hard. More ragged breath.

The sound of my nightmare.

But not just in my head this time. Played out in the open, dissected, replayed for judgment.

It was me. But not the man sitting here now.

It was the man I used to be—the one dragged home from a war half-dead, waking in cold sweats, fists swinging at ghosts only I could see.

The sheriff pressed stop. Silence dropped like a curtain, thick and choking.

I clenched my jaw and shifted my shoulders, trying to push the tension out of my spine, but it had already settled in deep.

Chelsea had kept those recordings for years. She’d used them like a weapon every time I tried to walk away. She didn’t need fists to break me—she had my past, recorded and ready.

I could still hear her voice in my head, sickly sweet and manipulative:

“What do you think the cops’ll say if they hear this, baby?”

“What do you think your precious club’ll do when they find out what you’re really like?”

“You’re a fucking time bomb, Kain. I’m the only reason you haven’t gone off.”

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