11. Aaron
CHAPTER 11
AARON
T here’s no way in hell I’m finding her first. I’ve been wandering in circles for what feels like hours, the twisted layout of this hotel gnawing at my patience.
I fucking hate wasting time and the maze that is this entire hotel is just adding to my frustration. The sounds leaking through these walls—some of them sharp, others guttural—make me question every decision that led me here.
But no.
It wasn’t a mistake. It was calculated. My only option.
I need this place. Need Tristan. He’s my key to getting where I want to go—to everything I’ve worked for.
Will you be happy then?
Happiness is a farce.
Power. Control. Wealth.
That’s the life I’m building.
Happiness and love? They’re nothing but traps, illusions that leave you vulnerable and exposed. I’ve never wanted them. Never will. Emotions are for the weak and I will never be weak.
I learned the lesson early, watching my sister fall apart day by day, wrecked by her desperate need to be loved. The universe dealt her a shitty hand, and she paid the price for it. I won’t. I swore then and there I’d never give anyone the power to destroy me. Blood or chosen, it’s all the same and I want nothing to do with it.
I’m the only one who holds that power. And that makes me indestructible.
I reach the end of yet another hallway, still no sign of my friends or the girl I’m determined to claim. Above me, a green light marks a connecting room—a shortcut to the other floor. Unless they’re inside this room already, which would be a stroke of luck considering how long I’ve been wandering like a damned ghost.
I scan my card. The door beeps, and I push it open.
Silence crashes over me, dense and unnatural, as darkness engulfs the space. It’s disorienting, a stark contrast to the sensory overload of this place so far.
I take a cautious step inside, the plush carpet muffling my movements. My breath hitches as something sharp prickles at my senses. The air is heavy, carrying a scent that makes the back of my throat burn.
Kerosene.
Blinking several times, I try to get my eyes to adjust. Eventually I make out a faint outline of a figure standing in the centre of the room. Are they moving around?
Then I hear it—a soft, deliberate pour of liquid meeting a surface, slow and calculated. The hairs on my body rise at the sharp scratch of a match being struck. My eyes lock on the tiny flame as it falls, spinning in midair like a deadly promise before it lands.
Fire explodes to life—a violent, golden burst that floods the room with heat and chaos. The shadows scatter, and the scene comes into focus like a living painting.
She lays on her stomach, utterly bare. Her hair is pulled up in a bun as flames clings to her like second skin, hungry and ravenous for more. They crawl over her, wrapping her in a fiery embrace and she seems completely unaware of it.
The woman doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t scream.
Doesn’t burn.
Untouched.
Am I actually seeing this or is this my imagination? Maybe the remnants of the drugs Tristan put in our drinks.
Then I see it—a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer, like a thin veil over her body. A barrier. Something translucent protecting her from the fire's greedy touch. It must be a balm, some sort of chemical shielding her skin.
The whole thing is sort of mesmerizing. Enough that I can’t turn away, watching her head bob up and down as she sucks some guy off. Moaning in pleasure while the fire dances on her back—a total display of control amidst the chaos.
Fire kink. I’ve heard of it but never seen it performed like this.
The other guy keeps pouring kerosene over her body, the liquid running in shimmering trails down her curves, feeding the flames that cling to her like a hungry beast. His hand strokes the top of her head with an unsettling tenderness, only to force it downward in deliberate, rhythmic motions, as if commanding her submission.
Goddamn. This is intense.
I move slowly, pressing my back against the cool stone wall as I edge toward the connecting door on the far side of the room. Anything to avoid drawing attention to myself right now.
When I reach the door, I shove at it, but it doesn’t budge. My heart kicks into overdrive as I push harder, bracing my shoulder against the heavy wood. Finally, it gives with a groan, the weight of something on the other side shifting as it opens.
A sandbag tumbles to the ground at my feet.
What the hell?
I nudge it aside with my foot, glancing side to side down the hallway. The spaces between doors widen, their configurations irregular, almost intentional. These aren’t the tightly packed rooms I’ve come to expect.
Executive suites? Maybe. Or something else.
The farther down this hallway I get, the wider the spaces get. And half of these rooms don’t have lights. Does that mean they’re not in use? Or off-limits?
The deeper I venture, the more the emptiness swallows me. The walls feel closer, the silence deafening, broken only by the soft echo of my footsteps.
This has to be where Tristan keeps his secrets. His private playground. A place out of reach of prying eyes and unwanted witnesses.
At the end of the hallway, a door stands out—a single green light flashing above it.
I pause, narrowing my eyes. Were the other doors lit like this? No, I would’ve noticed.
This has to be it.
I know the hide and seek is meant to add to the tension, but right now all it’s doing is pissing me off. I want to play already.
The room assaults my senses the moment I step inside—cold, stark, and unnervingly bright. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, their pale glow sharp and clinical, like something out of a nightmare.
The air feels wrong, heavy with the sterile tang of disinfectant and something metallic. My gaze falls to the floor that’s covered in sheets of plastic.
What the?—
I freeze, my breath catching as I take in the scene before me.
A man lies sprawled on a metal table, his body restrained by thick, unyielding zip ties. The plastic beneath him is stained, hints of crimson smearing in uneven streaks. His wrists and ankles bear angry red marks, raw and swollen, proof of his struggle to try to break free.
A cold chill runs down my spin.
His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, a sign that he is still alive. His eyes flutter as he struggles to stay awake. His skin is pallid, and his sweat-drenched suit is torn in half.
Beside the man is a tray of surgical tools on wheels—scalpels, forceps, nails. Some instruments I recognize, others I’ve never seen before. But I don’t need to see it to know that they’re not used for pleasure.
The man groans softly, his head lolling to the side. Either he’s the world’s greatest actor, or something is deeply wrong here.
The sharp crinkle of plastic snaps my attention to the far side of the room. Someone is approaching the table.
A small, delicate figure walks toward the man in unhurried movements. Heels clicking softly against the floor, toenails painted an innocent shade of pink. I don’t know why I notice such a detail right now. This is probably a very twisted, kinky game.
It has to be, right?
The person is encased in a poofy yellow plastic suit, the kind that swishes and rustles with every step. It makes them seem alien, even more unsettling. But it’s the creepy mask that stops my breath.
Unlike the elegant, sleek masks the rest of us wear, this one is grotesque—distorted and stained with streaks of fake blood. The mouth hangs open in a hideous droop, as if melting under an invisible sun, the hollow eyes dark and unblinking.
When they turn, I finally get the confirmation I’ve been waiting for.
Pin-straight blonde hair brushes the top of their shoulders, a sharp contrast to the gruesome mask. Dangling diamond earrings catch the light, a touch of elegance in this nightmare. More piercings line her ear, leading to a small tattoo—a cluster of four dots—just behind her lobe.
It’s a woman.
Definitely a woman.
If you’re going to commit murder, maybe don’t get a tattoo or at least cover it up.
Don’t jump to conclusions.
Some people like intense shit and this would be the perfect place to get your fill.
She moves so slowly and with a certain calm grace, as if she’s enjoying herself. Rolling up his sleeves, she sticks a needle in his arm and appears to be drawing blood. The man groans, the thick leather strap across his forehead prohibits him from moving.
Once she’s done, she removes her gloves, places the vile of blood on the tray and reaches for a scalpel.
“Any last words?”
He mumbles, struggling to come to. “I’m an important man. People will come looking for me.”
“It’s a good thing I have my bases covered then,” she says, reaching for his pants.
No way.
“No. Don’t. Please,” he shouts.
Taking his small flaccid dick in her hand, she looks down at him. “Is that the same thing you heard from your victims before raping them?”
The man screams.
“Did you stop when they begged?” She shouts overtop of him.
His screams turn to cries.
“That’s what I thought.”
The events unfold with such speed that I find myself questioning the reality of what I am seeing. It is hard to believe that this is actually happening. It feels as though I have stumbled into a horror movie production.
The knife comes down and she slices his dick clean off from the base.
A terrifying scream echoes through the room and the man begins to shake uncontrollably. The tiny killer walks around, positioning herself behind his head. With a firm grip on his chin, she forces his mouth open and shoves his bloody dick down his throat.
“How does it feel? You like that?”
I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out.
It all happens so fast.
The blade gleams as it catches the light, raised high above her head. For a split second, time seems to freeze—then it comes down.
Hard.
She drives the blade straight into his chest. His screams are muffled, swallowed by the plastic-wrapped room and drowned beneath the deafening roar of my own heartbeat. It's frantic, wild, and so loud I’m certain she’ll hear it.
I press myself tighter against the wall, hardly daring to breathe, every instinct in my body screaming at me to run, to escape. But I can’t move.
I can only watch.
There is blood everywhere as she drives the knife down into his stomach.
I’m going to be sick.
The knife drops and she pauses for a moment before lifting her mask.
“Take a good, hard look at my face before you join your other friends in hell, Mr. Lancaster.”
I try to memorize her face as she picks up the knife and buries it inside the man’s body over and over again.
So. Much. Blood.
How could there be so much blood from one body.
It’s not real.
It can’t be.
Seconds later the man begins to choke.
I need to get out of here before I end up on that table.
But I can’t move. I can’t even breathe. The weight of what I’ve just witnessed anchors me in place, paralyzing every nerve in my body. This isn’t just dark fantasy or twisted games—this is a living, breathing nightmare.
What the fuck kind of place is this?
Then she turns, her eyes locking into mine.
Everything snaps back into focus. My body jolts into action, a surge of adrenaline ripping through me. The last thing I hear is her voice, sharp and angry, cursing as I spin on my heel and bolt out of the room.
She fucking saw me.
But as I tear up the stairwell, it hits me—I’m still wearing the mask. I saw her face. She didn’t see mine. That small comfort isn’t enough to quiet the screaming questions in my head. What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
My legs burn as I climb flight after flight of stairs, lungs heaving, the mask suffocating me with every desperate breath. I finally stop, gasping, and yank out my phone.
It’s dead.
Of course it’s dead. Phones don’t work in this place—some bullshit about complete anonymity. Yeah, so people can play their sick little games... or commit murder.
I lift my mask, gulping air that feels like it’s not even reaching my lungs. My chest tightens, panic clawing at me like an iron vice. I haven’t felt like this since I was eight years old.
The memory from my childhood stabs through me—helpless, gasping for air, promising myself I would never let this happen again. Never lose control.
But here I am, suffocating in a stairwell, trapped in a maze of horrors I should have never stepped into.
Clamping my hand over my nose and mouth, I force myself to take small, shallow breaths. The carbon dioxide will force my body to calm down enough to need to grab oxygen. At least, that’s the theory.
With each strained inhale, the tight grip of panic loosens its hold just enough for me to notice something: small, crumpled pieces of paper scattered on the stairs, leading up to the stairwell door.
Breadcrumbs.
It has to be Dominik. He knows me too well—knows I’d never find him without a trail to follow.
My hands shake as I reach for the door, that one name on repeat in my head: Lancaster.
As in the head of the criminal dark underground market in this city. No, the whole fucking country. The worst criminals out there.
And if that’s true, then she was doing us all a favor.
Which is so fucking twisted to even think right now considering what just happened. I can’t even begin to wrap my head around it, but I can’t deny it either. This place, the people who run it, the secrets they’re guarding—it’s all connected.
Focus .
I have to take back my control. Figure out my next move and push past the horrifying images clawing at the edges of my mind. Maybe this was all staged. Maybe Tristan wanted me to see this, to rattle me, to make me question everything. To ground me in this project.
The night. The game of hide and seek. The flames. The knife.
All his idea.
But what the hell am I supposed to do now?
Get it together, Jackson. You’re losing your grip.
You think I don’t know that? Anxiety is a beast I locked away years ago, and yet here it is, roaring back to life. But it’s not every day you see a woman in stilettos drive a knife through a man’s chest.
I need to get out of here. To erase the last hour from my memory.
But how?
How do you forget something like that?
Dominik.
I need to find Dominik.