Chapter 35 #2
One man was strapped to a reinforced chair, wrists bound in metal cuffs that pulsed with a faint reddish glow—designed to burn just enough when resistance was felt. His hair was matted with sweat. Blood trickled down his temple, and the cloth stuffed in his mouth had been recently replaced.
Across from him, a second man leaned against the wall, gloved fingers flicking through a set of enchanted tools with clinical boredom. The torturer. She recognized him—Auren, one of the freelancers the Hive sometimes brought in when they wanted a clean read on a dirty job.
Nothing personal. That was his motto. Just answers.
She stepped back from the viewing slot and looked at Symond.
His face was unreadable, shoulders relaxed, gaze forward.
“Last chance,” she said. “We go in, you flinch, I pull you out. No arguments.”
He gave a single nod.
Not a word. Not a breath. Not a soul.
Violette exhaled slowly and signaled the guards.
The door opened with a groan that echoed through the corridor.
The first thing Violette noticed wasn’t the prisoner or the blood—it was Symond’s hands.
He stood just inside the threshold, posture forced into stillness, but his hands… they trembled. Only slightly. But she saw it. Her eyes were trained to catch weakness in movement. This wasn’t the shake of nerves before a fight—this was restraint, barely held.
Auren looked up and gave her a brief nod, then turned back to the man in the chair. “Took long enough,” he muttered, not unkindly, just detached. “Almost done here.”
His focus stayed on the prisoner as he spoke. The man who whimpered behind the gag, who’d been rattling off denials and evasions up to this point but whose head now lolled forward, ready to spill everything. Blood and sweat streaked his face. One of his eyes had already swollen shut.
Violette watched silently, arms crossed, as Auren moved in with the knife. She could feel Symond’s stare, but not the way a normal person would. He was still just inside the door, back rigid against the wall, mind somewhere else. His shoulders didn’t so much as twitch.
Auren’s blade was enchanted—cold to the skin, and humming with an alchemical compulsion that made nerves scream. It was the kind of weapon that turned a strong man into a sniveling mess before it even drew blood, the kind that made the body betray itself.
The man in the chair jerked, biting down on the cloth, as it traced across his collarbone.
Auren whispered something to him—words too low for Violette to hear but familiar enough that she didn’t need to.
Empty promises and hollow bargains. Threats blooming like flowers in the dark, acid and all-consuming.
Details of what would happen next if the man didn’t talk.
She glanced back at Symond, gauging his reaction. His face was blank. His hands dug into the fabric of his shirt, nails pulling tight against the seams. He was holding but barely.
The prisoner’s desperation broke—splintered into frantic nods and mumbled words that barely made sense. Blood dripped onto the stone floor, and the smell of it filled the room—hot and metallic—mingling with sweat and piss.
Auren stepped back and pulled the gag away, letting it hang around the man’s neck. “Who was it?” he asked. “Who did you sell the formula to?”
Auren slid the blade along his shoulder, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to make him flinch and gasp.
The prisoner twisted in his restraints, voice cracking. “Rylok! It was Rylok! Please, I’m telling you everything.”
Auren paused, as if considering the validity of the man’s confession, then gave a slight nod. He was efficient that way. No gloating, no extra pain if it wasn’t needed. Just enough.
“Got what you needed?”
She nodded slowly, still processing. Rylok was once one of the Hive’s most trusted informants.
They still did work with him but he had become unreachable as of late.
Reports suggested he was gearing up for something big, though he wasn’t the type to start a rebellion, more so the type to profit off the corpses.
Auren stepped back, already uncorking a vial with one hand while jotting notes with the other.
Violette turned slightly toward Symond. “You okay?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded once. Too stiff. Too fast.
She watched him closely. His jaw was clenched, his breathing steady, but that was it. Everything else was wrong. His shoulders were too high. His pupils too wide. His fists balled so tight the veins in his forearms bulged.
She’d seen prisoners more composed.
Auren stepped forward again. “Let’s clean him up.”
He tilted the prisoner’s head back and fed him the liquid. The man twitched. Then stilled. After a moment, his expression shifted—slack, confused.
“Do you remember why you’re here?”
The man blinked. “No… I… I don’t…”
Auren patted his cheek. “Good. You won’t.”
Symond inhaled sharply.
“What just happened?” he asked.
Auren shrugged. “Partial memory wipe. Just the last day or so. Won’t make any new ones for a few hours as well. Gives us just enough time to plant him back at his station and unknowingly lead us right to Rylok.”
Symond turned to Violette, his voice still low but insistent. “Is it permanent?”
She nodded. “This one is. But it’s not specific memories, so it’s easier on the brain.”
Symond’s expression shifted—focused, distant. Like a plan was taking root.
She stepped closer. “Symond.”
He didn’t look at her.
“Symond,” she said again, sharper. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
That made him glance her way. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were spinning with questions, with want. Not the kind she liked to see.
“I’m just curious,” he said coolly. He just stared at the empty chair, now devoid of blood and pain and the man’s memories.
“Whatever it is you want to forget—it won’t help.”
Symond’s lips twitched. Not a smile. Just the ghost of one. “Thanks for the concern.”
And he walked out.