9.
Trigger ?? warning!!!
Torture , blood, gore and disturbing contents in this chapter.
If you are uncomfy plz skip it.
Thanks.
The apartment had become a mausoleum.
Yellow police tape still crisscrossed the hallway outside, the door to her aunt’s unit sealed with an official warning.
But Isolde couldn’t stay there not after what she’d seen.
For now, the authorities had moved her to a temporary shelter: a small, government-issued suite three floors above a clinic, its walls gray and sterile.
Detective Marc Renaud paced the cramped living area.
He was tall, built like a man who once played rugby, his shirt sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms.
He had olive-toned skin, deep crow’s feet from years of squinting into pain, and a quiet way of speaking as though afraid his voice could shatter people who’d already cracked.
“I know it’s hard,” he said, sitting across from her. “But we need you to focus.”
Isolde sat curled on the edge of the armchair, her legs drawn beneath her, her hair damp from a restless shower.
She wore a loose cream sweater over a pale nightdress, soft and innocent against the hard lines of her grief.
Her eyes were swollen, ringed in sleepless bruises. Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
“She didn’t deserve to die like that.”
Marc nodded slowly. “No one does. But someone went through a lot of effort to send a message. Ritualistic placement. Blood symbols. This was personal.”
She looked away.
“You said you’d been receiving letters?” he continued.
“Yes,” she said. “Notes. Gifts. Left for me. No return address. Just signed DV.’”
Marc jotted something down in his notebook, lips thinning.
“Do you still have them?”
“In my bag,” she whispered. “In the blue envelope.”
He took the bundle gently, fingers careful. “We’ll analyze everything. For prints. DNA. Any trace we can find.”
Her hands twisted in her lap.
Marc watched her a moment longer.
Then he stood, glancing toward the window. “If anything else happens anything you call me. No matter how small. Understood?”
She nodded.
Then he was gone.
That night, the tape arrived.
Not a flash drive. Not a link.
A VHS tape wrapped in black silk, a gardenia pinned to it.
Tucked beneath the knot was a note, written in that now-familiar, perfect script:
Play me, Isolde.
Her hands trembled as she unwrapped it.
There was no VHS player in the shelter.
But downstairs, in the old media room where they held grief counseling there was a boxy TV with a built-in slot.
She crept down the stairs barefoot, her long cardigan trailing behind her like a cloak.
She checked the hallway. Empty.
The clock on the wall read 12:11 AM.
Heart in her throat, she slipped the tape into the machine.
The screen flickered.
Static.
Then the picture snapped into focus.
The room was dark. Windowless. Concrete walls stained with age.
In the center, beneath a single dangling bulb, was an old man tied to a wooden chair. His head sagged forward.
His white hair was matted with sweat and blood. His bare chest heaved with shallow, terrified breaths.
Was duct-taped to a steel chair. His left eye was swollen shut, his lips split.
Then—movement.
A man stepped into frame.
Dressed in black. His face unseen, hidden beneath a hood and a porcelain mask that resembled a wolf cracked and painted with faint gold leaf.
He circled the old man slowly, like a lion savoring its kill.
The camera remained still. Too still. It was deliberate. Measured.
The man in the mask didn’t speak.
“P-Please,” the man rasped, accent thick Eastern European. “I pay double! Triple!”
The killer paused, tilting his head. “Money won’t save you, Josef.”
His voice distorted, yet unmistakably French—sank into the syllables like a blade. “You tried to buy something that isn’t yours.”
Josef sobbed. “She needed money! The aunt—she offered!”
The killer crouched, gloved hand caressing Josef’s cheek. “Ah, but my Isolde isn’t for sale.”
Then, he reached for something beside the chair—a rusted crowbar.
Isolde’s mouth dried.
On the screen, the masked figure slammed the bar down across the old man’s knee.
The scream that tore from him was inhuman—raw, broken. The sound of something ancient being destroyed.
Isolde clamped a hand over her mouth.
Blow after blow came. Controlled. Precise.
One leg. Then the other. Bones cracked. Flesh split. The man sobbed, screamed, begged.
Then...
A switchblade flashed. Josef screamed as the killer sawed off his pinkie, blood jetting onto the lens.
“Count,” the killer commanded, dropping the finger into a mason jar. “One.”
“Nyet! Nyet!”
The blade moved to the ring finger. “Count.”
Josef gagged. “T-Two… Three…”
By the tenth finger, he’d fainted. The killer revived him with ammonia, then moved to his toes.
Isolde sobbed into her sleeve, but her eyes wouldn’t close.
At last, the man fell silent. Slumped forward, weeping quietly.
The masked figure knelt beside him.
Whispered something inaudible.
Then he drew a thin, silver wire from his pocket.
And he strangled him.
It took nearly a minute. The old man kicked. Twitched. Gurgled.
Then—nothing.
The camera lingered. Then the figure stood.
And for the first time, walked toward the camera.
The mask gleamed in the light. But the face behind it remained hidden in shadow.
Only his voice broke through now, cold and smooth like silk stretched over a blade.
“Isolde.”
His gloves peeled off, revealing pale, elegant hands.
His voice now rich, velvety, Dante’s voice. “Your aunt sold you to this pig for $50,000. Gambling debts. Tsk.”
He clicked his tongue. “But don’t worry. I’ve… sent her to hell forever..won’t try to harm you again.”
He leaned close “You see now, don’t you? The world is a gutter, ma chérie. But I..” he pressed his hand to the lens, leaving a blood smear, “I’ll burn it clean for you.”
“I watched you weep over her corpse. I saw the way you shook, the way you couldn’t breathe. And I thought—God, what a beautiful thing she is when she breaks “
“So cry, my little angel. Scream if you need to. But never run.”
He said moving back from the camera. “Because I’ll always find you.”
The screen went black.
Isolde vomited into the wastebasket.
Onscreen, static snowed. A final message flickered:
“You’re welcome”
Isolde sobbed openly now, knees tucked to her chest, rocking slightly.
She sat on the floor of the media room until the sun began to rise, her eyes bloodshot, the taste of fear bitter on her tongue.
And yet…
Something deep inside her something dark and quiet ached not just with terror… but with longing.
He had killed for her.
He save her but that was very horrible to kill her aunt.
She’s so confused with her feelings.