Episode| II.
She has been in that room for a week, and if we keep her there, she'll probably die.
My mind battles my emotions—should I let her out or leave her for a few more days?
On the first day, she mourned, cried, and screamed, her fists pounding against the door until her feet were bruised and raw.
The second day was worse: the rants continued, her voice hoarse from shouting, and she refused food, biting one of the maids' ears off in a frenzy of despair.
By the third day, she spat in Basket's face, a visceral act that ignited my loathing.
The fourth and fifth days dragged on with her endless cries, begging to see me, though I hadn't been there since I kidnapped her.
When I didn't show up, she tried to bite her wrists, desperation clawing at her.
I hate interruptions, especially in the middle of meetings, and I can't stand being annoyed.
On the sixth day, she was silent, an unsettling calm that made my gut twist. Basket even mentioned he thought she'd committed suicide.
It's now the seventh day, and I'm overwhelmed with consultations.
I canceled them to come home. She won't listen to anyone else, so I guess it's up to me.
As I enter the mansion, the familiar scents of polished wood and distant cooking greet me, but the tension in the air is palpable.
The maids and associates nod as I pass. Soldiers make their usual rounds, their heavy boots echoing off the marble floors.
I shoo them away, feeling the weight of someone on my back.
"Greetings, Jack-in-the-box," my brother laughs, his voice breaking the tension.
I chuckle to myself as he groans and hops off.
"Why the long face?" I ask. He shoots me a side-eye, the shadows under his eyes telling me he's struggling.
Basket's been clean for ten years now, but there was a time when his heroin addiction nearly cost him his life—and almost made me take it.
I chained him to a bed for three months, cold turkey, and left him in a room full of drugs to test him afterward.
He knows if he slips again, I'll kill him.
He broke the 9th rule of our Mafia: no drugs.
He asks for the day off, and I nod. "Keep your phone off silent. No clubs, no loud music. You need to hear me." We stand side by side, and I glance at the stairs, the wood creaking slightly under my weight. Basket follows my gaze and whispers something. I groan in disgust.
"How long has she been sitting in her own filth, Basket?
" I snap. He grins and says, "I love you" on his way out.
I grit my teeth as I ascend the stairs, each step heavy with anticipation.
The door to her room is five feet from the top, a threshold I dread crossing.
I turn the knob slowly, Beretta in hand, the cold metal familiar against my palm.
The room reeks, a sickening blend of sweat, urine, and despair, though it's not as bad as Basket described.
She's pissed herself, but no feces. Still, the stench is unbearable, wrapping around me like a heavy fog.
"You awake?" I call, my voice echoing in the oppressive silence.
She turns over when she hears me but doesn't respond.
"You fucking stink. Get up." Her skin is pale and clammy, her body a fragile shell.
She's going to die if she stays here. "I'll say this once: If I walk out of this room, I won't come back.
You'll rot in here." Her eyes flutter as she slowly rises to her knees, a flicker of determination in her gaze.
"Good." I roll my eyes, irritation bubbling beneath the surface as she trembles before me. "Why are you still sitting there?" She mutters something, but I can't hear. "What?" I snap, yanking her off the floor, but she falls again, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I see."
I head to the bathroom, the tiles cool beneath my feet as I gather a towel, washcloth, soap, shampoo, and conditioner.
I turn on the shower, the water cascading down in a soothing rhythm, smirking when I hear her stir, trying to hide.
"Little bitch," I whisper under my breath.
"Get in here and wash up. Your stench is killing this room. " No response.
I step out of the bathroom, placing my Beretta on a small table.
She tries to hit me with a shelf, her desperation manifesting in wild swings, but I dodge it and toss a towel in her line of sight.
Wrapping her arms behind her, I apply pressure just enough to scare her.
"So you could walk, huh?" I sneer as she screams, the sound a mixture of pain and fear.
I throw her into the shower, and she slams into the wall, the impact reverberating through the small space.
"Get up and strip." She shakes her head, pushing me away.
"Fuck this." My patience snaps, and I shove her down under the water, the cold spray hitting her like a slap.
"If I have to get wet to make you obey, don't expect this to be easy.
You lost that privilege, sweetheart." I grab her hair, yanking her up to slam her against the wall, her breath hitching.
"Don't worry, I'll help you." I draw my knife and slice her shirt open from collar to hem, the fabric falling away like a forgotten promise.
"Please, I'll do it." Her voice is steady, no longer stuttering, the defiance flickering in her eyes.
I grin, malice evident on my face as she unbuttons her jeans, fingers trembling.
"Hurry up," I command, stepping back to give her space.
She glances at me, hoping I'll stop watching, but I relish the power.
"Don't waste my time." She turns away, sliding her jeans down, then takes off her shirt, leaving only her bra and panties.
I grow impatient, the heat in the room pressing down on me.
I walk up behind her and grip her neck, slipping the knife under her bra and slicing it clean.
She gasps, her body shuddering in shock.
"If I tell you to do something, do it." I cut through her panties, letting them fall.
Releasing my grip, I step back. "Finish up and get out.
I'm not leaving, so don't try anything. Next time, I'll bury you. "
I strip off my shirt, watching as she hurriedly finishes, tears streaming down her cheeks as she washes herself.
I know she's broken, the fight gone from her eyes.
She searches for clothes but finds none.
Her gaze lands on the gun near the toilet, a desperate thought racing through her mind, but she barely has time to think before I re-enter the room.
Her breath catches, fear sparking in her wide eyes.
"You're making this difficult," I mutter, grabbing her nape and dragging her to the floor.
I throw a bag at her. "This is yours, right?
Someone picked it up from the car outside the warehouse.
You'll need most of it." I kneel before her, the weight of the moment heavy in the air. "Ayana, isn't it?"
She nods weakly, her spirit visibly crushed.
"You planned to run, huh?" No answer. "I'll give you three minutes. That's all." I lift her chin with my Beretta, the cold metal pressing against her skin. "Do you understand?"
"Y-yes," she whispers, clutching her brother's picture, the edges frayed and worn.
"It's 'yes, sir.' Say it."
My phone vibrates, the ringtone familiar. Pushing the muzzle harder under her chin, I wait, tension hanging thick in the air.
"Yes, sir." Her voice is barely a whisper, weak and resigned.
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