7. Zyran
ZYRAN
Ilean against my truck, one leg kicked up on the tire while I keep my gaze on the bar’s entrance. The night hangs low and quiet, thick with the stench of spilled beer and trash.
It’s not long before the door swings open and a group spills out, laughing at first—too loud and too careless. The dead man is in the middle of them, riding whatever story he’s telling like it makes him bigger than he is.
One of his friends on the left elbows him. “Dude, just leave her alone.”
Then the one on the right chimes in, a little quieter. “Yeah, come on, man. She said no, so…just don’t be that guy.”
Dead man scoffs, waving them off, nearly tripping over his own two feet. “Relax. I was being nice.”
“That didn’t sound nice,” one of the other mutters, while the other mumbles, “You crossed a line.”
He snorts. “Please, she works in a bar; what else do you expect?”
The words spewing from his mouth land heavy in the air, even from here.
I tip my head up, biting my cheek. One of the guys stops walking for a second, glancing back at the door. “That’s–that’s not how it works.”
Dead-man rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You’re both acting like I assaulted her or something.”
I don’t rise to his words, even if I’m imagining a thousand different ways I can hurt him before I kill him. Instead, I just watch him laugh as his friends look at him like nothing is happening, like he didn’t just test a boundary.
He’ll never get the chance to hurt her.
Not in a way that matters—he won’t get close enough to learn what makes her flinch or what she does when fear settles in her chest. He’s not going to get to breathe the same air as her.
That door closed the second he opened his mouth.
One of his friends claps him on the shoulder, saying. “You didn’t. But just watch it, man.”
There’s a pause, a moment where he might be thinking about his actions, but he laughs and shakes his head.
“She should be grateful I even noticed her. Not like she’s got a lot going for her.”
Silence follows, like he’s waiting for his friends to take his side, but neither of them says anything. They just glance at each other and keep their mouths closed.
“Well, I’m out.”
“Yeah,” the other says. “You’re on your own; see you tomorrow.”
The two friends head off toward their cars, one by one, shaking their heads, irritation and discomfort written plain across their faces.
The dipshit pulls a cigarette from his pocket, and the lighter flares, briefly illuminating his face.
I step out of the dark, shoving my hands into my pockets.
“Hey,” I say a little too easily. “You got an extra one?”
He glances at me, sizing me up before he shrugs, and pulls the pack out. “Sure.”
Dipshit holds it out, and I take it, letting him light it for me. The flame catches, heat blooming at the tip, and smoke slowly fills my lungs. I cough once, on purpose, like I’m not used to it. It’s almost like I could be harmless.
He smirks, taking a drag. “First time?”
“Oh, something like that,” I shrug, smirking back. “It’s been a long night.”
“Tell me about it.”
We stand there for a second, smoke curling between us as the bar door opens and another group of men leave. I nod toward the building, pretending to be anything else but casual.
“Your buddies seemed kind of worked up.” I take a drag, kicking a rock. “Something about a girl?”
He snorts, shaking his head. “Yup. They’re always fucking dramatic.”
I bite my cheek, avoiding slamming my fist into his face, and tilt my head. “Yeah? Sounded like you said some pretty rough shit.”
He shrugs, exhaling smoke through his nose. “She’s just a bitch. Acting all shy like she’s better than everyone.”
I laugh quietly as if I get it when really all I want to do is shove this cigarette into his eye. “Man, I hate that.”
That earns me a grin, and he relaxes, shoulders loosening, while his ego swells back into place.
“She works in a fucking bar,” he continues on like I’m not planning each way I’m going to make him hurt. “If she didn’t want attention, then she picked the wrong damn job.”
Something in me goes still. My eyes twitch.
I take another drag, slow and deliberate—letting the silence stretch just long enough for him to finally glance at me, uncertainty slowly crossing over his expression.
“Is that how you treat every girl?” I ask, voice wavering between light and dark.
He scoffs, realizing I’m not a friend like I was pretending. “Relax, man, it’s really not that deep.”
I look at him then, really look—he’s pathetic and not even worth the easy kill. But the way he’s talking about my Esperr, he’s got to go.
“No,” I tell him. “But I don’t think you get to decide that.”
His brow furrowed, throwing his half-smoked cigarette on the ground. “Dude, what’s your problem?”
I approach more slowly than I would like to.
“You talk about her like she’s just a small little thing,” I start to say, “like she owes you for noticing her.”
He shifts his weight; the grin that he once had plastered across his ugly face is now gone, and a scowl takes its place. “Back off.”
I smile again, flicking some ash off my cigarette before taking another puff. “Funny, because isn’t that what she did, and I’m pretty sure you didn’t like it.”
He opens his mouth, probably ready to say something stupid that would end up pissing me off, but decides to roll his eyes and scuff.
I take one last drag before flicking my cigarette down, crushing it under my boot. Looking up at him, I take a good look at his slack mouth and the smug look in his eyes. He inhales, opening his mouth to say something.
I don’t let him—my fist connects with his nose, the bone cracking on impact. His head snaps back, and his body follows, folding wrong as he drops to the pavement. He hits the ground hard, blood pouring from his nose.
I flex my fingers once, feeling the smallest sting bloom across my knuckles—familiar and oddly grounding.
“Well, fuck.”
The warehouse is quiet when I step inside—concrete floor, a metal table that is bolted to the ground, a single chair that’s also bolted down. A light overhead hummed, steady and familiar, casting everything in a dull and unforgiving glow.
You’d expect a murder house to smell like blood and human remains, but it’s bleach and a hint of oil.
Dipshit is already secured, wrists bound to the arms of the chair, ankles locked down. The rope is tight enough that there’s no way he’s getting out of it.
I don’t linger by him; instead, I walk past and head for the table along the wall, the only table that’s not bolted down. My boots sound louder in here than they should, each step echoing just enough that I see him flinch from the corner of my eye.
I set my hands on the metal surface and lean forward slightly, feeling the cold bite through my palms. The feeling pulls something loose in my chest—last time I stood like this, it was a father in the chair.
He wasn’t like this dipshit here; he was a man who built his house on fear, who thought providing a roof meant he owned what lived under it.
I remember his hands more than his face, the way they shook when he finally realized no one was going to save him. And the way he kept saying he did his best, like the effort could erase the impact he caused.
I straighten slowly, letting the memory settle back where it belongs, smiling when I see the subtle shift in his breathing.
He’s not panicked yet, just aware, a pause like his body’s waiting for permission to keep going. Only when the next breath comes, it’s faster and shallower.
I let a few seconds pass, maybe ten or more, I’m not sure, but it’s long enough that the silence starts to press in on him.
I want him to feel the fear in his bones, to let the silence eat at him.
That is until I pick something up from the table, not because I need it, not yet, but because the sound carries through the warehouse.
Metal scrapes against metal, and his breath stutters.
I smile, setting it back down before straightening and finally turning around.
I’d be the first to admit it surprises me when he locks eyes onto me immediately—wide and bloodshot. He tracks my every movement like it might give him a head start. His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jump; shit, he might even break a damn tooth.
Moving forward, I stop a few feet away, crouching just enough to bring us to eye level.
“Nice to see you’re no longer pretending to be asleep,” I say quietly.
He narrows his eyes at me, probably trying to think of a million ways he could escape. Unfortunately for him, he won’t.
My head falls to the side, studying him—the sweat along his hairline and the way his gaze keeps dropping to my hands and snapping back up. It’s funny the way he’s trying to anticipate, trying to get ahead of something he doesn’t understand.
Finally, I straighten, blowing out a breath.
“I recommend breathing,” I say, almost like we’re having a casual conversation. “Right now, you’re wasting energy.”
He frowns for a second, and then he tries, but I see the way his chest stutters as he forces air in through his nose like he’s following instructions he doesn’t fully trust.
It doesn’t help much; panic has a way of always burning hotter when you tell it to calm down.
“That’s the important part,” I continue, moving back toward the table. “I mean, not for me; it’s really not about me. I breathe just fine. This is all about you.”
I rest one hip against the table, and fold my arms, letting my words settle in. His eyes flick up to my face, then to my hands, and then to the table. He’s cataloging threats, trying to guess what I’m about to do—probably thinking of every movie he’s seen that has a kidnapping in it.
“When people panic,” I say, “they make bad decisions. Some talk too much, some lie when the truth would’ve just been easier. And some spill secrets, things that don’t even matter.”
I stare at him, letting the silence make him twitch. And then I turn towards the table, scanning the objects below. My fingers trail over them, brushing against the knife. Picking it up, I roll it once in my palms, testing the grip.
Behind me, I hear his breathing change again—faster now, almost shallow.
I peer over my shoulder, watching his chest rise and fall, too high and too quick.
It’s like he’s running but staying in the same spot, wishing he were someone not reachable anymore.
The chair lets out a faint creak as he pulls back instructively, rope biting into his skin that’s sweating.
I walk toward him, boots echoing into the space, and I don’t stop until I’m a foot away, close enough that I can touch him.
“Do you know how many women were attacked last year?” I ask.
He swallows, blinking hard before shaking his head.
“It’s more than people think,” I continue, tossing the knife into my left hand with ease.
“More than get reported, more than ever making it to court,” I sigh.
“And most of the time,” I say, “it’s usually men who view women as weak and easy prey.
They think because if they stand in the dark, in the shadows, it makes them big; they like hurting women. ”
I take a step forward.
“It’s someone familiar, someone that just smiled, someone who thought proximity meant permission. They think they can take and nothing will happen to them.”
His eyes flick to my hand again, to the knife, and then back to my face.
“The worst part isn’t always the violence,” I say quietly, “it’s the moments before. It’s when she realizes she’s not being listened to anymore, that no one cares.”
The chair jolts, creaking until the bolts, his head snapping back and then forward, the sound crushing bone again, and for a second all the air leaves him when my fist collides with his face.
I pull back, letting him wheeze, sucking in air like he’s just been dunked under water. “What was her name?”
He blinks at me, unfocused, blood coating the bottom half of his face. His mouth opens and then closes. “I—what?”
I raise a brow and wait a second, and when he doesn’t say anything, my fist collides into his face once again. The force and precision are the same—the chair rattles under him. He groans, head lolling before he catches himself, breath breaking apart in short and ugly pulls.
Crouching in front of him, it brings us to eye level. His pupils are blown wide now, staring at my face with confusion.
“What’s her name?”
He shakes his head, frantic, fear finally slipping through the cracks. “I don’t—I swear…. I don’t?—”
I reach for his hand, and that’s when he really starts to panic, trying to wiggle his wrist away that’s tied down.
“No—wait, please, man, please. I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he begins to babble on, twisting his wrist, wiggling his fingers. His words trip over each other, thin and completely desperate.
I yank on his finger, firm and precise.
“Stop moving,” I tell him calmly, frowning.
He doesn’t, not that I expect him to, though, he does start to cry.
I smile, holding his finger out while I spin the knife in my left hand. His scream punches out of him, echoing off the walls as his body jerks against the restraints.
“I don’t know,” he sobs. “I don’t know what you want…please, I swear–”
His words turn into a high-pitched scream as I bring the knife down, taking his pointer finger off. I smile, a satisfied curve on my lips as he sobs, clutching his hand, barely able to breathe. The sound scrapes at the air, raw and brown, as I hold the finger up between us, patiently waiting.
“You done?” I ask after five minutes of him whining.
When he finally looks up at me, eyes blown wide, face slick with tears, I lower my hand. “Now, let’s try this again, what was her name?”