41. Brody
brODY
It starts with the needle. I’m on my knees, ankles chained to the ring in the concrete. The warehouse is all light and glass, cold as a morgue, every corner watching.
I hear them behind me. Boots, laughter, the zip of a duffel. Then Marcus, calm as ever. He doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t need to.
A hand fists my hair, yanking my head back. My mouth opens in reflex, but the gag is already in. Filthy, soaked with someone else’s spit. I can’t even curse.
Someone grabs my arm, peels my sleeve back. I thrash, but it’s pointless. The men are too strong, too quick. The needle bites, fire under my skin, and I can feel the world getting slippery.
My vision pulses. Every sound sharpens, every color blurs. The rage is still there—white-hot, wild—but my body is turning useless.
“Good boy,” Marcus purrs. He crouches, his face inches from mine. “That’s compliance. That’s all I ever wanted from you.” He’s wearing a suit, perfect as always. He could be at a board meeting. He could be at a funeral. He could be the one digging the grave. “Bring her in,” he tells his men.
The door bangs open. Lola; she’s half-carried, half-dragged; hair wild, wrists zip-tied. There are black marks on her neck where the collar went yesterday, her lip swollen from the last round.
She’s barefoot, shivering in nothing but a tank top and torn shorts. Her eyes find mine and I feel the world snap.
I try to say her name. The gag turns it to a grunt.
Marcus stands, spreading his arms like a conductor.
“Look at you both. My favorite broken things.” He signals.
The men dump Lola at my feet. He circles us.
“You know what I love about this generation, Brody? Everyone’s always watching.
Everyone’s always recording. Everyone’s so desperate to see someone else suffer just a little bit more than they are. ”
He gestures. Two more men roll in a tripod, camera already live. There’s a laptop, a red “REC” light. “Smile. Richard will be watching.”
The drug is doing its job. The world feels dream-thick, my limbs rubbery. But the terror is real; it’s a wolf gnawing my spine.
Marcus leans in, caresses Lola’s cheek. She flinches, and he smiles.
“Don’t worry, darling. You’re about to be a star.
” He snaps his fingers. The men haul me upright and wrench the gag out of my mouth.
The spit runs down my chin. I can barely keep my head up.
Marcus faces me, voice low and cold. “Today’s lesson: love is a weapon.
If you hesitate, she suffers. If you obey, you suffer. There is no escape. You get to choose.”
Lola is gasping, trying to crawl closer, but the men shove her down, grinding her cheek into the concrete.
“First choice,” Marcus says. “Who gets the prod? You or her?”
He holds up the cattle prod; it crackles, the stink of ozone. I spit blood at his feet. “Me.”
He nods to his men and they jab it into my ribs. Electricity detonates in my chest. I buck, scream, bite my tongue. My teeth feel like they’re breaking. I piss myself, heat flooding my pants. I hear Lola sob. The camera whirs.
Marcus checks his watch. “Good. Next round. Lola, your turn to choose.”
He hauls her up by the hair, forcing her to look at me. “I want you to say the worst thing you can imagine. Or I’ll let these men break every finger on Brody’s hand.”
Lola’s eyes are huge, black with terror. “Don’t—please—”
He nods at his men. One grabs my hand, bends the pinky until it creaks. Lola screams, “Stop! I’ll do it!”
Marcus smiles. “Go on.”
She sobs, voice shredded. “Brody, I wish you were dead. I wish you’d never come back. You ruined everything. I hate you. You’re a monster. You’re disgusting. You make me sick.”
She’s shaking, her voice dissolving. The words are brutal, but I know who’s holding the handle.
Marcus claps, delighted. “Beautiful. Authentic. Richard will love that.”
He turns to the men. “Strip them.”
Gloved hands tear at my shirt, my jeans, rip them down my legs. I don’t bother fighting; the drug has me moving in slow motion. My cock shrivels in the cold, but it’s nothing compared to the humiliation burning my skin.
Lola’s naked too, skin mottled with cold and shame. Her arms try to cover her breasts, her groin. The men force them down, splaying her open for the camera.
Marcus moves between us, holding a new syringe. “Performance enhancer, Brody. For your father’s benefit.”
He drives the needle into my thigh. Liquid fire follows, and I gasp, my blood turning to ice and gasoline. My cock starts to rise against my will.
“Now, for the main event,” Marcus purrs. “You want to protect her? Show me. Fuck her. Or watch me let my men ruin her.”
The room howls. I’m shaking, resisting, but my cock is rigid, the drug turning my arousal into a weapon against both of us.
Lola is crying, shaking her head. “Please, Marcus, please don’t—”
He laughs. “Brody, you have thirty seconds. Or I start carving her up on livestream.”
I crawl over. My body moves without me; it’s like being trapped behind my own eyes, forced to watch as my hands grab her hips, forced to listen as she whimpers, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
I press inside her. I want to die. She’s dry at first, then my body’s betrayal makes her wet. The men jeer. The camera’s red eye is a mouth, swallowing us whole.
Marcus narrates, voice smooth and venomous. “Look at the camera, Lola. Let Daddy Richard see what a whore you are.”
She can’t. I can’t. My hips buck, the drug pushing me faster. I want to pull out, to stop, but the men’s boots stomp closer. One grabs my hair, jerks my head up to make me look at Marcus.
“I want you to say it,” Marcus hisses. “Say she’s nothing. Say she’s a whore. Say you love this.”
I spit, but my mouth moves. “She’s nothing. She’s a whore. I love this.”
Lola shudders, sobbing. “Brody, it’s not you, it’s not you—”
Marcus grabs her by the jaw, forces her mouth open, and spits into it. “That’s your place, Lola. On your knees. On camera. Suffering.”
He jerks me off her, throws her down, and shoves my head between her legs. “Eat her. Lick her until she screams for Daddy.”
The men hold me there. Lola is limp, shivering. I lap at her, tears mixing with her sweat, her blood. She moans, broken, not pleasure but despair.
Marcus paces, watching the feed. “That’s right. You’re making history. Richard will never recover from this.”
He signals; a man steps forward and hands me a knife. “Now, Brody, time for you to prove your loyalty. Cut her. Or I let them rape her.”
My hands shake. The world floats. I try to drop the knife, but the men seize my wrist, forcing my hand down to press the blade against Lola’s thigh.
“Do it,” Marcus says. “Or I’ll take her tongue.” The knife bites her skin. Blood wells up as Lola screams. The men cheer, Marcus grins. “There you go. Love is pain. Suffering is obedience.”
He orders the men to piss on us. The hot stream hits my back, Lola’s hair. The humiliation is total. The camera whirs.
Marcus kneels, grabs Lola’s face, smears her tears with his thumb.
“This is forever, darling. Every man in this room owns you now. Every man in this city will know what Brody Voss did to his Bambi. And Richard? He’ll know what happens when you cross me.
” He stands, signaling the men. “Time for the final act. Brody, if you want her to live, you’ll choke her until she passes out.
If you refuse, I cut out her eye with your knife. ”
I stare at Lola, my hands trembling. She nods, silent tears, and I wrap my fingers around her throat. I squeeze. She gasps, clawing at my hands, eyes rolling back. I loosen, terrified, but the men slam my arms down, forcing me to keep going. Lola’s face turns purple.
“Enough,” Marcus says, bored. “Let her breathe. We can’t ruin the product.” He signals again. The men drag us apart, cuff us to opposite walls. Marcus stands in the center, arms wide. “Send that to Richard. Live feed. I want him to see what his failure has wrought.”
He crouches in front of me, cold eyes burning. “This is just the beginning, Brody. I’ll keep you alive as long as you’re useful. As long as you can hurt. As long as you can break her.”
He stands, dusts off his suit, and walks out. The door slams. The camera’s red eye blinks and blinks. I float above my body now. The pain is distant. The shame is infinite. All that’s left is the sound of Lola’s choked sobs, echoing through the darkness, a lullaby for the end of the world.
I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can only watch as Marcus’s men pack up the bloodstained props, the ruined clothes, the spent syringes. I hear laughter. I hear someone say, “He’ll never recover from this. Richard will fucking break.”
They turn off the lights. In the blackness, all I have left is the memory of Lola’s eyes—pleading, terrified, forgiving, ruined.
I whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
But in this place, even the walls know that sorry is just another lie.