Page 206 of Fractured Devotion
I wipe my blade clean and enter through a side door, slipping into the labyrinth of corridors.
The refinery groans around me, pipes rattling under pressure, steam hissing through cracks.
My boots echo softly against metal floors.
Everything smells of smoke and old grease, and the air is thick enough to choke.
But I don’t rush.
Every step forward is deliberate, every turn a slow tightening of the noose.
I want him to feel it.
I want him to know death is coming, inch by inch.
The main office is ahead. I can hear the faint scrape of a chair against the floor, followed by the subtle shift of footsteps. Vescari, moving within his den, unaware that his time has run out.
I push the door open, calm as still water.
Vescari looks up from his drink, his face aging under the harsh lights. He doesn’t flinch.
“When I heard about Dunley, I wondered if it’d be you,” he says, his voice carrying the easy weight of old knowledge.
I step inside, shutting the door with a soft click.
“You never were good at running,” I answer, letting the words hang between us—words we’ve both said in other rooms and under different circumstances.
He leans back, swirling amber liquid in his glass and studying me with the same detached interest I remember too well.
“And you,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “were always too good at chasing. That’s why I kept you close… back then.”
His tone twists around something that isn’t quite admiration but more like a private joke only we’re in on.
I walk toward him, each step slow and steady.
“Do you know what I hate most about men like you, Vescari?” I ask, my voice low.
“Enlighten me,” he murmurs.
“You still think you matter.”
I strike fast. My blade slams into his hand, pinning it to the desk.
His fingers loosen, the glass slipping from his grasp and crashing onto the floor, shards scattering with a sharp crack.
He doesn’t scream, but his face twists in agony.
“You think I came here for answers?” I ask, leaning close.
“No,” he murmurs.
“Good,” I say, twisting the knife.
I let him bleed, watching the red pool beneath his hand.
“You think you won something tonight?” he rasps.
“No. This isn’t a victory,” I reply, my voice calm.
