Rise of Ink and Smoke

Prologue - Wolfson

One year ago

I sit in the hollow silence of my prison. No windows to the outside world. No lights to ruin the ambiance of hopelessness. No mouth-breathers to invade my hell.

Just me and my voyeuristic companion.

“Hello, Regret.” I can’t see a dirty godsdamn thing beyond the reach of my hand, but… “I know you’re there.”

Silent and cold, Regret stares back.

“Admiring my banging good looks again?” I stroke my full beard. “Four months in this cage, and I’m still a sexy beast. Jealous?”

No answer. Of course not. Regret doesn’t speak. It seeps. Slithers around my rib cage. Crawls inside my lungs. It’s the dark abyss squeezing my balls with clammy tentacles and yawning in my face, unimpressed.

“Serious question. Why are you so clingy? Got nothing better to do than lurk in the damn corner like a bad habit?”

Regret swells, filling my empty spaces.

I have a lot of those.

“I feel you smothering.” I chuckle bitterly. “Breathing down my neck. Rubbing up inside me like a dirty dick. I get it. I fucked up. Is that what you want to hear?”

A chill pebbles my skin.

I shove off the musty mattress, needing movement. And a smoke.

Titties would be good, too. A couple of supple pillows to rest my weary head. Can’t remember the last time I felt up a girl.

Never sounds accurate.

The room stinks of sweat and stale breath, of time stretching too thin, of Regret festering in my bowels.

I should be dead.

To think, if I hadn’t thrown myself off that cliff, I wouldn’t be trapped in a concrete room without basic necessities like smokes and titties.

Instead, I did the damn thing. I stretched out my arms like Caucasian Jesus, died for mythical reasons, and resurrected downstream, right into the manicured hands of Dr. Try-Hard.

Yeah. My captor is a medical doctor. Good for me. He mended the arrow wound in my arm, dragged me from the brink of death, and locked me in this tomb.

The best part? He has an unhealthy hard-on for the psycho who raised me. Like, he wants to be Denver Strakh.

As if.

Dr. Limp Dick is a cheap imitation. A dollar-store Dahmer. I’ve been here for four months, and he hasn’t tried to rape me or eat me.

Why not?

Why keep me alive if not to fuck my heavenly body ten ways to Sabbath?

I inhale deeply and regret it immediately.

The damp air, ripe with mildew, carries a sharp bite of antiseptic.

Bleach.

Urine.

Blood.

Unthinkable fluids live in these walls.

How many people have died here? How many bodies have rotted down the drain?

I curl my fingers, pressing them to my nose. It’s fine. I’m fine. I just need to think.

The facts are these. If I hadn’t jumped, I’d be dead. I would’ve starved with Frankie and my brothers. Or we would’ve crashed the plane and burned alive.

But I wouldn’t have died alone.

Now you will. Regret fists my stomach. You’ll die a virgin. Caged. Forgotten. Alone.

“What do you want from me? An apology?” My jaw tightens. “Want me to fall on my knees and beg for forgiveness? It won’t change anything. They’re dead. Everyone I love is dead, and I’m not. I wasn’t supposed to make it out. Not without them.”

My insides clench as Regret strengthens its hold.

“You love this, don’t you? Watching me tear myself apart. Watching me drown in my mistakes.”

Regret leans in, waiting.

“I know. You won’t let me forget her. Or them. Or the last thing I said…”

I definitely tried to kill her. She’s dead anyway. We all are.

The echo of my words scrapes through my skull like rusted iron.

“No.” I grip my head. “That was a lie.”

A cruel, desperate lie. One I needed Leo to believe.

I would never hurt Frankie. When I fired that gun on the cliff, I aimed wide, knowing I wouldn’t hit her.

What if she believes the lie? What if she thinks you tried to kill her?

“She’s smarter than that. She knows I only said it so Leo would put a hot one in my chest. But the moron didn’t pull the trigger.”

So I jumped.

And instantly regretted it.

I tried to break the fall, repositioned to absorb the impact, and narrowly avoided a jutting rock. I landed like a fucking baller. I mean, the river was brutal, but I survived. Obviously.

And now you’re trapped. Regret drapes a phantom arm over my shoulders. With me. Keeping me here. Feeding me.

“I can’t escape.”

Don’t pretend you want to escape me. The whisper retreats into the shadows. When you’re ready to talk again, I’ll be here.

I rake my fingers down my face, digging into my beard and filthy skin. I need to focus. I need to get the fuck out of here.

But where the hell is here?

The doctor flew me to this place. I was drugged out of my mind and half-dead as he hauled me from his plane to this outbuilding. But as consciousness flickered in and out, I saw…

Trees.

Real, breathing, towering trees. A whole line of them.

It was just a glimpse. A trippy, high-as-fuck peek at an evergreen forest against the snow-covered mountains.

Spruce trees, I think. Or hemlock. Thick at the base, their trunks partially buried under snowdrift, with dark green needles weighed down by heavy icicles that glistened like frozen dicks in the weak winter sunlight.

Maybe I imagined it.

I lived in the Arctic for twenty-three years. Or am I twenty-four now? Sure. Let’s go with that. In my twenty-four years on this planet, I’ve never seen a tree outside of books and movies. I’ve never stepped beyond the hills of shivers and shadows.

Hoss is the only place I know.

But if I’m right and trees really do exist on the other side of these walls…

Toto, I don’t think we’re in Hoss anymore.

I’m below the tree line.

I escaped the Arctic Circle.

Except I’m not free.

Leaning against the wall, I consider masturbating to pass the time, but even that has lost its appeal.

Talking to Regret is even less stimulating.

Moments drift without count. No clocks. No sunlight. Just the occasional scratch of metal against concrete when the old man remembers to feed me.

The doctor has only visited twice, but the old man comes often. He never speaks. Never makes eye contact. His only job is to shove food and water through the bars and retreat before my eyes adjust to the brief light.

So I wait.

And pace.

Ten steps east to west. Twelve steps north to south.

Like I know which way is up.

I don’t.

This sucks.

When the door opens again, daylight slashes my retinas like hot, serrated razors. I rear back, hissing and squeezing my eyes shut against the assault. The pain is immediate, a deep stab straight through my brain.

Every time with this shit.

Months in the pitch black has turned me into a damn mole person. If I had claws, I’d dig my way to freedom instead of sitting in a cold, damp corner, stinking like a grave.

Footsteps. Slow. Measured. The scuff of polished leather against dirt-covered cement. I don’t need to see to know who it is. He smells like jet fuel and mental hospitals.

Not the old man.

The doctor.

The door swings shut, followed by the soft buzz of an overhead light.

Gods forbid he leaves that on when he’s not here.

“Wolfson.” His voice is silk dragged over steel, delicate with a slur of fang. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a million bucks. It’s amazing what a pitch-black spa retreat can do for the skin.

” I crack my eyelids open just enough to see a blurry figure dressed in threads far too impractical for this shithole.

“Can we talk about how fabulous the decor is? I especially love the total darkness. Gives it a torture dungeon vibe while conserving electricity. Five stars.”

The doctor smiles like he’s indulging a child.

I have that effect on people.

“You always have something clever to say.” He approaches the bars that separate us, his fine wool coat brushing the grime-covered steel.

“Gotta have hobbies. Some people knit. Others kidnap and murder. I provide clever commentary for the latter. Did you know that of the nine people I’ve met in my life—”

“Nine?”

“Well, there was Denver, Leo, and Kody.” I tick them off on my fingers. “My mother, Frankie, and two other women Denver kidnapped. That’s seven plus you and the old man. Anyway, I’ve met nine people, and three of them were psychos. Thirty-three percent, man. What a fucked-up world we live in.”

“How do you define psycho?”

“Rapists, pedophiles, kidnappers, murderers… Shall I keep going?”

His fingers twitch at his side as if holding back the urge to… Touch me? Hit me? Prove he’s all the things I not-so-subtly called him?

He hasn’t hurt me yet, not directly. But that doesn’t mean he won’t.

I sigh into the silence. “If you could point me to the suggestion box—”

“You’re not in the position to offer suggestions.”

“Hear me out.” I make a sweeping motion around me. “Candles. Just a few here and there. Ambient light would really add to the Gothic charm.”

“So you can set yourself on fire?”

“Ew, no. Do I look suicidal?”

“You jumped off a cliff.”

“That was a one-time performance. I never do anything—or anyone—twice. Try to keep up, Doc.”

“You haven’t asked why you’re here.”

“Figured you needed time to rehearse your villain monologue. Seems like your thing.”

He hums, his blue eyes swirling with insanity. “Do you know what the heart does when deprived of light?”

“Gives up?”

“It adapts, beats slower, and conserves energy. But eventually, it weakens. It forgets how to be strong.”

“Are you writing a self-help book?” I snap my fingers. “The Kidnapper’s Guide to Cardiology. Might be a bestseller.”

“You amuse me.” His smile flattens.

“That makes one of us.”

He reaches into his coat and removes a small, metallic object. The overhead light catches the piercing glint of it.

A scalpel.

My mouth dries, but I keep my expression bored.

“Is this when we start the fun part?” I roll my neck. “Because if you’re planning on taking a kidney, I should warn you. I drink too much for mine to be valuable.”

“I don’t need your organs.” He turns the scalpel between his fingers, thoughtful.

“Cool, cool. Because I’m kind of attached to them, and they’re attached to me. We have a special bond.”