Page 8 of Sage Haven
Wrong.
I smiled, then reached into my pocket and flicked open my knife. The blade gleamed under the harsh light, a flash of silver in the dull gloom of this place.
I pressed it to his scalp, feeling him shudder underneath me as I dug it in.
And then peeled off pieces of his skin, bit by bit.
His screams tore through the Pit, sharp enough to almost make it feel like the concrete would vibrate. His body convulsed, jerking hard against the coils as I worked in precise, practiced strokes.
Justice isn’t clean and it isn’t quick.
It’s slow.
Relentless.
And meticulously carved into the flesh of men who thought they were above consequence.
The ENA called it their spiritual atonement.
I called it Tuesday.
But I still never asked questions.
Didn’t care about the reasons.
Especially when I knew by now that with the ENA, the answers were always worse than the nightmares they left behind.
I finished the strip, let it fall with a wet slap to the floor, and stepped back, wiping my blade clean on his shredded clothes.
“Anything else you want to tell me?” I asked, my voice low, casual, like we were sharing drinks at a bar instead of sitting in a slaughterhouse.
His breathing came shallow and labored but his hate still burned.
He glared up at me through cracked lids. “Fuck you, Reich,” he hissed. “He’s already… won.”
Wrong again.
I worked in a methodical and precise rhythm.
Every incision, every cut, brought forth his wails, adding another verse in a new kind of song only I would ever hear. This was my show.
My mosh pit.
And Parrish?
He was just another body in the crowd.
Were these the right choices?
Hell if I knew.
But Castor and I were still breathing and that was all that mattered.
I made the last cut.
And Parrish stilled.
Another masterpiece.
