Page 6 of Sage Haven
He was drowning in his own pain now, submerged in my entrapment of wire, bleeding out from a thousand tiny incisions and dozens of deep gouges. His body shuddered, spasmed with every twitch, every reflexive movement. It only made things worse for him. Every contortion, every desperate thrash, deepened the wounds. Turned cuts into tears. Turned tears into gaping wounds that exposed pale muscle and glistening bone.
I didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
The screams from his pain didn’t unsettle me. It was…expected.
Necessary.
His eyes bulged, red-rimmed and glassy, as his face had twisted itself into something unnatural—a mask of rage and hopelessness, contorted so violently he no longer looked human. More like some malformed exhibit, the kind you’d find behind cracked glass in some backwater carnival sideshow or one of those grotesque displays in Ripley’s Believe It or Not, where people paid a few bucks to gawk at the impossible, but this wasn’t entertainment.
This was work.
This waspurpose.
And if I did it right, Ali Parrish wouldn’t just be another name crossed off a confidential ENA ledger no one read twice. No, with my hands, I would make him something permanent. The next exhibit in a gallery of consequences.
A warning and a legacy.
I’d hear people always say the most beautiful thing in the world that they’ve ever seen is either their wife on their wedding day or the first look of their newborn child’s face.
But not me.
I’ve watched the light fade from the eyes of men who thought they could get away with being sadistic predators. Who believed they could devour innocence and walk away unscathed.
That light? When it flickers out for the last time, leaving nothing but the cold, empty shell behind?
That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Parrish wasn’t there yet, but he would be.
His screams echoed off the cold, concrete walls of my basement, otherwise known as “The Pit”.
“YOU’LL FUCKING PAY FOR THIS, REICH!” he howled. His voice broke again, splintering into something wet and ragged. Blood sprayed from his cracked lips with the force of it, flecking the floor between us.
He spat my name like it was a curse.
I smiled. A slow, cold twist of my lips. The kind of smile that held no warmth. No pity.
The kind that men saw right before they died.
“Funny,” I said softly, unphased. “I think I said the same thing to you… what was it? Thirty-six hours ago?”
I watched the anger hit him. It struck hard and sudden. His pupils flared, blown wide with disbelief and sudden clarity.
Ali Parrish had his chance.
Twenty-four hours to turn himself in to the ENA.
He thought he was clever. He thought he was untouchable.
And he thought wrong.
So, I dragged him here to pay for his mistakes.
My brother, Castor, and I were made for this. From the time we turned eighteen, we were groomed for sanctioned violence. Taught that morality was just another tool in the box, one you could pick up or put down as needed. We were taught to be good soldiers, to serve higher purposes and not ask questions.
By the time I graduated college, I’d traded any major I once cared about and the white-picket-fence life that came with it, for something darker.
