Brody
Black pulls up slowly. A monster’s SUV, paint still wet from the last job. Gravel splits under the tires, crackling out a warning. Snow thickens the air, white under the headlights, the world howling cold.
Marcus steps out first, striking the ground like he owns it. No coat, just a tailored suit, charcoal and cutting. His eyes scan the dark, hungry for a show. Two slabs of muscle follow. His loyal men, thick necks, cut knuckles, heat and hunger leaking from their fists.
Breath mists. Flash-freezes. It’s bright in the cone of headlights, but beyond that? Black as a dying vein.
Smug bastard believes the world will bend when he says so.
I count footsteps, watching from the broken edge of the ruined building, shadow on shadow, invisible unless you know where to look.
Lola. She’s huddled in the dark, far back, eyes wide and hollow. She’s not supposed to watch, but she can’t look away, either. I can feel her heartbeat from here.
Mine’s a bomb; hers is a trapped bird.
They’re moving forward, Marcus leading, the dogs flanking. Arrogant, sloppy. I slip left, behind a pillar. Safety off, finger on the silencer’s trigger. The world shrinks to the point of contact: my hands, their bodies.
The first dog never sees me. Suppressor coughs. A wet pop. Skull and bone burst open, red misting the snow. He hits the ground, face first, blood pooling fast and black against white.
The second guy jerks, stunned. Training kicks in, but I’m faster. I run towards him, slamming my elbow into his throat, crushing cartilage, then knife to the gut. He grabs for me, desperate; I twist. Steel rips soft meat. His belly opens, steaming pink in the cold.
He drops, twitching. Red everywhere. Hot, slippery, and stinking of iron and shit. I step back, surveying what’s left. Marcus stands alone, outgunned, and out of moves.
He tries to bolt, maybe fight. I close the gap, hands on him before he finishes turning.
Driving my knee into his gut, he folds, gasping.
My fist cracks his jaw sideways, teeth snap, blood spurts.
I catch him by the hair, slamming his skull into the SUV’s fender.
Once. Twice. He sags, drops like wet trash to my boots.
He’s out, a pathetic heap. I spit, wipe blood from my glove.
Lola is still watching. I feel her in the periphery, shaking, hiding, wanting.
I drag Marcus’s dead weight up and over my shoulder.
and into the abandoned building. Hollow, decrepit, windows broken.
No witnesses. The concrete floor is as cold as death.
I prop Marcus on a bent metal pipe, arms behind his back, duct tape, zip ties, thick plastic bites into his flesh. Ankles bound. Blood drips from his mouth down his shirt, pools on the frozen slab under him. He’s still limp, head lolled sideways, breathing shallow.
Leaving him to move the dead bodies outside, I drag the first guard past the edge of the lot, toss him behind a dumpster, then pack snow over his face. Second one follows, leaking blood, limp as a doll. The shed door groans but I wedge him inside, out of sight.
I circle the building, checking for headlights, engines, any sound.
Nothing. The night is still, except for my lungs burning and the wind screaming at the door.
Lola hasn’t moved. She’s broken from what she saw, but curiosity wires her nerves, pins her in place.
She stares at the carnage, at me. A fucking monster.
I exhale and step back inside.
Marcus is groaning now, blood peppers his lips. He tries to lift his head, but I palm his hair and force him upright. His eyes flicker open. The look—ha. I’ve seen real fear before. He tries to spit at me, words, blood, anything. All that comes out is a wheeze.
“You don’t get to own her anymore.”
“She’s mine,” he rasps, choking. “You’re dead, you twisted fuck.”
I hit him before he finishes; fist cracks his nose. Cartilage squelches, blood jets out, fountains down his chin. He gags. I hit him again, breaking the jaw this time, hot snap, teeth scattering like gravel on steel.
“This is for everything you did to her,” I say. I mean it. All of it. Nothing left unclaimed.
I go for his ribs next. Precision. Two, three, four punches.
Cracking sounds, he tries to scream but his mouth is already a red pit, filling with blood.
The knife comes easy. I drag the blade down his arm.
Then deeper. Through fat, through muscle.
I want him to feel every inch. Blood wells up, thick and dark, spills onto the floor.
He thrashes, shrieking. The echo bounces off the tin roof, wild terror. I don’t stop. I cut again, perpendicular, carving lines. A crosshatch, like cattle marked for slaughter. He howls, voice shredding.
“Look at that,” I murmur. “Not so fucking tough now.”
I force his jaw open, rip at the lips, shove two fingers deep and fish out his tongue. It flaps, trying to curl away. I take the knife and hack it, rough, fast, through meat and membrane.
He gags, chokes, blood gushing everywhere, thick spray across my hands, his collar, the chair. He convulses, eyes wide, tears streaking down.
“No more lies,” I say. “No more poison.”
He tries to pull away, but the zip ties dig in deeper, biting to bone. His hands are trembling. I force the left one to the pipe, fingers splayed.
Taking the blade, I chop. Once. Twice. Bone grinds, tendons snap. Fingers scatter like fat white grubs onto the floor. He tries to pass out. I slap him, waking him up.
I’m not finished.
I hack off the rest of the hand. It’s gory work. The blade slips; I use the butt of the knife to crush the knuckles, then tear flesh with my fist. Blood fountains, splatters the concrete, mixes with the piss and shit leaking from his pants.
“No more hurting. No more touching her.”
He’s sobbing, moaning, can’t say words. Can’t even meet my eyes.
His lap is next. He sees it, the blade, and realizes, then he screams.
I unzip his pants and pull out the shriveled cock before slicing it off in one clean motion.
Blood sprays, hot and wild, across his thighs.
He loses his mind, thrashing, shrieking, nearly pulling the chair off its legs.
I drop the ruined meat on the ground and flick open my lighter.
Old, silver. I set his cock on fire. Watch it shrivel and blacken, stink rising.
He howls, but it’s muted now, more gurgle than scream.
He’ll never touch her again.
Lola is there, just beyond the threshold. Eyes huge, face white-blue in the dark, lips parting as she watches me work. Horror, yes. But relief too. Something blacker. She wanted this.
Marcus is going, fading. Blood loss, shock. He slumps, drools red, mouth split and oozing.
I lean close, knife in my hand, heart pounding like a war drum.
“No second chances,” I whisper. “She’s free.”
I drive the blade through his chest. Hard, up under the ribs, twisting until the heart pops. He jerks once. Twice. Then sags, dead for real.
The silence is absolute. Just the sound of dripping blood, my breath, her breath.
I stand over him, shaking. All I see is red. My pulse is gone, replaced by this hollow, echoing triumph.
Lola steps forward, shaking, trembling. She steps out of the dark and into the bloody ring of ruin looking at me, taking in every piece. Broken man, broken monster.
I wipe my hands on his jacket and stare at her.
“It’s over,” I say, voice wrecked. “He can’t hurt you now.”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares at the gore, the wreckage, the thing I became for her.
We stand in the silence, covered in blood and frost.