𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲

Chapter 80

TW: descriptions of depression, suicide. Graphic violence. Please continue at your own risk.

— Chapter 80 —
Powerless

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C H A I N S

About three golden rules in life I was absolutely sure of.

"I've gotta say, Ash. This really takes the cake. Every word that just came out of your mouth was so fucking stupid that I'm not even sure I heard you correctly. So I'm going to need you to say that all again—in my good ear, this time."

Rule number one: if you saw some sorry mother-fucker getting thrown into a back alley late at night by a shadowy figure, you didn't see a shadowy figure at all. You sure as hell didn't see me, and you definitely didn't see a shiny balisong knife in my hands.

As a matter of fact, you didn't see shit.

The ginger-haired Mayhem biker I'd corralled behind Crave wasted no time in trying to put space between himself and my dark silhouette ghosting towards him. Flat on his ass, Ash gripped at the muddied cement beneath him and scrambled backward. He could hardly see me through the pouring rain—but I knew he could glimpse my blue-grey eyes glowing with a particularly savage rage.

"You're crazy, man," Ash spluttered. "You didn't hear me say nothin'."

A shriek of grating steel cut through the air. I had the point of my butterfly knife digging into the nearby wall, the blade squealing as I tore into the weathered stone like hot butter. I couldn't stop myself from reveling in the way Ash squirmed at the sound.

"Really?" I planted my boot on his chest—trapping him down. "That's a relief, then. For a moment there I thought I heard you confess to trashing a friend's place and bashing a bartender that I happen to be good friends with. His name's Elliot. But I don't need to tell you that, do I?"

Ash laughed incredulously.

"So what if we did!" The biker slurred through his teeth, "What the hell does it matter to you?!"

Rule number two: there exists a universal truth that only three groups of people are incapable of lying. Drunk people, drugged-up people, and nuns. You don't fuck with nuns.

Crouching down, I forced Ash's freckled face into my hand and brought the knife to eye level.

"You're going to tell me everything," I rasped. "After that, I'll decide whether or not I'm going to cut out your tongue."

"I ain't telling you shit!"

"Wrong answer."

A howl ripped through the air as I tore my blade through the skin by Ash's lips. Bleeding onto his crooked teeth, the biker shuddered a few panicked breaths.

"The next one's going to need stitches," I warned. "Your call."

"Jesus, fuck! Okay!" Prying his face from my hands, Ash rushed to explain, "We were just following the kid's orders, man. I swear. All I did was get handed the keys. None of us knew that little blondie bartender would be there."

The kid. Han.

My blood simmered beneath my skin. I could still remember the echo of gunfire, the fall of a body, the unblinking eyes of a dying friend. And it filled me with more rage than grief could make way for.