Page 129 of Ruins
I step through the side entrance, my steps echoing against the hollow floor. The air is alive with anticipation.
The men are waiting.
I can feel it—the shift in energy, the silent reverence as I enter. For a moment, I let myself relish the weight of it, the rush of adrenaline humming beneath my skin.
This is where Scythe thrives. Before me, two men kneel on the cold concrete, their bodies bound, their faces marred by fear and violence. Maksim stands off to the side, his calloused hands slick with blood, a sadistic grin plastered across his face.
I don’t need to ask what he’s done to them.
I already know. As Scythe, every fiber of my being thirsts for this—the power, the control, the lives hanging in my hands, waiting for me to decide their fate.
But Santo still lingers beneath the surface, restless, aching for something else.
He wants warmth.
He wants to go back home, hold Vasilisa, press her against his chest, whisper reassurances into her hair until she believes them.
He wants to dry her tears, bring back her smile, bask in the light of her presence.
But Scythe does not deal in warmth.
He deals in pain.
I lift my gaze to Maksim, who gestures toward the captives with an easy tilt of his head, his bloody fingers gesturing me closer.
I step forward.
The moment I do, she appears in my mind again; her tears glisten like stars in twilight, reflecting an ocean of emotions so deep it consumes me. A knot twists in my stomach.
I push it down. I force her away.
These men have information. I will extract it from them.
Maksim steps closer, pressing a blade into my palm. The metal is cool, familiar, a weight I know well.
“Have at it, Scythe,” he mutters, a knowing gleam in his eye. “Make them talk.”
I turn the blade over, watching as it catches the dim light, casting jagged shadows across the prisoners’ petrified faces. Maksim has already done his work—the Juggernaut never disappoints.
I stride toward the first captive, who whimpers as I draw the blade along his jaw, his chest rising and falling in frantic terror.
“You know why we’re here.” The words slip from my mouth effortlessly, my voice even, cold, absolute.
The man’s head jerks up and down, frantic, but his voice shakes. “I-I don’t know anything!”
I smile. A grim, lifeless thing.
“That,” I say, pleasantly, “is what they all say.”
Then, without hesitation, I bring the blade down onto his shoulder. The steel bites through flesh, carving through muscle, and the room erupts with his agonized scream.
The sound bounces off the warehouse walls, swallowed into the night beyond. A symphony of fear. A chorus of desperation. A song Scythe knows all too well.
The second man stares, terror etched onto his face, but he remains silent.He wants to be brave.Bravery has never been a shield against pain. In fact, it’s something I enjoy breaking down. Wiping the blade clean on the captive’s pants, I turn toward him.
He flinches before I even touch him.
Good.
