𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲

Chapter 86

TW: Graphic violence, torture scene, dark themes.

— Chapter 86 —
Death by a Thousand Cuts

=||=||=

N O A H

Chains drove his blood-covered fist into the ribs of a murderer.

Through Han's busted lips escaped a throaty groan. With his wrists zip-tied to the arms of a wooden chair and his ankles shackled to the legs, he was slumped over in his seat, splotched red with fresh bruises and bleeding through his ripped clothes.

"Quit bitching," Chains warned, knotting the ribbon of a bandage over his knuckles. "This is just the warm-up."

He tied up the cloth with his teeth before hammering another punch into Han's battered ribcage. A cough of blood dripped down the bastard's chin.

I was on the edge again.

Rays of moonlight slashed through the darkness of the empty warehouse, filtering in through the shutters and catching against the beads of sweat on Chains' exposed back. His sleeper build was marred with the faintest hints of scratches, bruises and scars—some of which I figured were Sage's handiwork, and others I knew were trophies from previous battles.

His fists slammed into Han. Over and over again, until the warehouse started to come alive with echoes of the bastard's pain.

You can't kill him! He needs our help!

Observing the onslaught with unblinking eyes, I was sitting in the shadows only a few feet behind them, making no movements aside from the occasional bouncing of my leg. A choking sense of anxiety had blossomed in my stomach like an invasive weed, and it'd spent the last three hours forcing its roots through my barren veins.

Would you please just listen to me!

I'd bitten cuts around the piercing in my tongue. My jaw ached from the burn of constantly grinding my teeth together. Chills raced up and down my spine, burning and freezing, breaking me into a cold sweat that I couldn't control. The cigarette that'd been sitting between my fingers had long been forgotten, only falling once the flames had gotten close enough to singe skin.

Haven't you hit enough lows for one night?

I wanted out of my own body.

Leave me alone.

Yanking a wallet out of Han's pocket, Chains soon got to turning its compartments inside-out.

"Ticket stubs," he listed, "loyalty cards, parking permits—" Tossing away stray licenses and IDs, he popped a callous smirk when he found the cash. "Two hundred dollars? You shouldn't have."

Pocketing the money, he soon turned his attention to Han's driver's license.

"Jesus," he remarked, squinting to read better. "No wonder you go by your last name. I can't even pronounce that."

Han managed a rutted scoff.

Here he fucking was. Bound up and trapped, after weeks of trying to hunt him down, quite literally sitting across the floor from death incarnate. The scumbag's head hung limply off rigid shoulders. A coat of sweat had drenched his paling neck and chest, darkening the fabric of his black shirt. He was going to make one ugly fucking corpse.

"Nineteen years old," Chains recited off the ID. "Apartment on Hillcrest Avenue, and... huh. This license says you're six feet tall." He smacked the wallet against the back of Han's head. "Motherfucker, you barely look over 5'9. No freaky face scar in this photo, though."