Cruel Or Deranged?

          VOID

My hands, clad in black gloves, gripped the knife tightly as I dragged it along the wall, savoring the grating, metallic screech it made.

Eric—who was in charge in the room I was headed—obviously stopped doing whatever it was he was doing because the fucker stopped crying.

I slowed my steps, still dragging my knife along the wall.

"We could go on forever, Dubrov. I don't tire easily," Eric said.

I heard the man's heavy pants before he managed a rasp reply. "Go to hell! I already told you, you're wasting your damn time! I don't know where he is."

"I'm actually trying to be nice here," I heard Eric say. "Believe me, it'll be a lot easier if you cooperate with me."

It was then I reached the doorway, leaning against the frame and letting my gaze settle on the scene before me.

The room was dark, oppressive, and full of tools that had only one purpose. Metal tables bore instruments of agony: pliers, hammers, knives—each one well-used.

It was a room where certain people went in and didn't come out alive. A room filled with the stale mask of fear.

Sensing my presence, Eric who had been crouching before the captive, glanced over his shoulder to give me a look, and amusement crept into his eyes when he saw me.

The captive, on the other hand, his wrists and ankles bound tightly, visibly recoiled at the sight of me. The weak front he had put up against Eric crumbled instantly like a wax figure melting in a fire.

His battered face, swollen and streaked with blood, paled to a ghostly white.

But the bruises on his face were clearly not enough. Otherwise, Eric would've gotten some answers from him by now.

I tucked one hand into the pocket of my puffer jacket, keeping my eyes on him and watching as a new fear ate him up.

He forced a hard swallow that sent his Adam's apple sliding upward.

"You see?" Eric shrugged, turning back to the man. "I told you I was the nice one. Now, you brought the mean one over."

He stood up, and the man's face grew paler than a normal person would think was possible.

Sometimes, I found it embarrassing how grown men couldn't withstand a little pain and fear. They take all the fun away.

"No, No," the man shook his head, swallowing hard again.

He was clearly speaking to Eric, but his terrified eyes were on me. "I... I already told you everything I know. Please! You have to believe me. Don't leave me with him."

Disgust churned in my gut. Pathetic. If his hands and legs weren't bound, I was damn sure he'd have been on his knees, grovelling at Eric's feet for salvation.

"Okay," Eric casually shrugged. "Let's say I do believe you. But I don't think he does." He gestured toward me with a grin.

The fucker's eyes fucking glistened with unshed tears. God-dammit. Did we still have real men in the world?

I kept my eyes on him as Eric moved to the center of the room, doing whatever on the table.

At the far end of the room was Miles who stood like a sentinel, watching the scene like it was a movie.

I waited a beat, then pushed off the doorway and stepped into the room.

"Leave." It was an order.

Eric and Miles didn't hesitate, the door groaning shut behind them. But I knew they wouldn't go far.

The captive whimpered, shutting his eyes tightly, as if willing the entire scene to dissolve into a bad dream.

Humans always did this—retreat into imaginary worlds where nothing hurt and everything was safe. Pathetic.

That tendency to escape reality rather than confront it head-on was what made them weak. They didn't know how to solve their problems and get rid of it once and for all.

"Pl—Please," the captive stammered, his voice shaking like a loose window in a storm. "I—I swear, I already t—told him e—e—verything I know. I—I can't help you any further."

I ignored him, moving to the center of the room where my Pain Vault—like I liked to call it—rested on the table. It was exactly as I'd requested—pristine, complete, and ready.

Dubrov Stanislav. Aged fourty-nine with properties in the top region of the country.

This man had a lot of women swooning over him. I wondered what they'd think if they saw him now— squirming, trembling and pleading before his fellow man.

Maybe it was my fault. I shouldn't have revealed my identity to him when he was captured and brought over. I wondered why I don't learn, considering this was always people's reactions whenever they discovered I was The Torturer.

I picked up a scalpel from the box, giving it a scrutinizing stare under the dim light. Turning and walking to him, I crouched, leveling my gaze with him.

"You know, I really don't get it, Dubrov," I began, my tone calm and conversational as I reached for his shirt, slowly undoing the buttons one by one

Tell me why the hell Eric was interrogating this man with his clothes on.

"I understand that it's hard for most men to resist beautiful women. But is it really that hard to just look away? To act like you didn't see her?" My voice and hands in black gloves were gentle, a contrast to how much Dubrov trembled beneath my touch.

He was clearly clueless on what I was rambling about and focused more on his buttons being removed.

"I get that she's beautiful, and perfect. They've probably never seen anyone like her before. I also couldn't believe it when I first saw her. But why can't they take a fucking hint and just leave her alone?"

I ripped off the last button instead, the small rage running up my veins.

Dubrov shuddered. I could practically see his bare chest rising and falling heavily like it was on a race.

I stood up, going briefly to the table to grab my mini box of purple needles. When I turned back, I slipped my phone from my pocket, tapped the screen a few times, and held up the picture for him to see.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" My voice was still calm. "Tell me, have you seen anyone as stunning as she is?"

His panic doubled, sweat streaming down his temples. "I—I promise you, we—we didn't touch her. We didn't hurt her. I—I've never even seen her before."

A low chuckle rumbled from my chest as I lowered the phone, momentarily glancing at the floor. "Dear Dubrov, if you had touched her, you wouldn't be here. Neither would your two Mistresses in Norway, or your six kids scattered in Sweden and Germany be alive. Not even your aunt who's on life support in Philadelphia. I'd have murdered every one of you, giving you deaths unimaginable."

His eyes widened, more from the fact that I knew all these details about him.

Well, once you were on my watch list, I could gather as much information as I wanted. It was as easy as snapping a twig. Well...sometimes.

I tapped the screen again. "I asked you a question."

He swallowed hard again, his eyes more focused on the picture now. "She's... She's gorgeous."

A cold smile touched my lips, although it only lasted for a second.

"Of course," I murmured, tucking the phone back into my pocket. "She's damn pretty, that is why everyone wants her."

I crouched before him again, the rage simmering within me clawing its way to the surface.

As I reached for his trembling left hand, I could feel his pulse hammering against my grip. I selected a needle from the box and inserted it deep into his index finger.

A gut-wrenching cry filed the space immediately. Finally, some noise.

"Want to know why the needles are painted purple?" My tone remained calm, dissonantly soothing as I slowly pushed the needle deeper into his skin. Blood trickled from the puncture, crimson against pale flesh.

I won't even be surprised if he didn't hear my question above his cry and torment.

"It's her favorite color," I explained, as if discussing a trivial fact. "It's funny how she falls in love with the oddest things. Even her choice of food combo is... questionable."

My voice remained calm and unruffled. I picked another needle, lifting his second finger.

"No! No, plea—" He didn't get the rest of the words out before I pushed the needle into the middle finger.

Another painful cry.

"I bet you'll be more amused when you listen to her choice of song," I continued, my voice unhurried while staring down at the finger like it was a mere tool I was working on.

Done pushing over half of the needle into the finger, I retrieved my phone from my back pocket, tapped the screen several times and held it up to him as Cinnamon girl by Lana Del Ray started playing.

"Who the hell fancies this kind of music?" I asked with a small frown, staring at the screen. "For two weeks, this has been her favorite. Sometimes, she sheds a damn tear while singing along. At first," I shoved the phone back into my pocket. "I almost lost my mind thinking the song caused her pain. Then I discovered the tears were because she fucking enjoyed it. How does anyone fancy such songs?"

Dubrov's wide-eyed stare screamed of disbelief, as though he were trying to decide if I was deranged or just cruel.