Warning!!! This chapter contains extremely descriptions of torture. Readers should read with Discretion
LIACH POV
"Liach, when will you send tangible info about the De Luna's. It's been over a month since you left."
"Papa, please be more patient with me, it won't be long."
How can I possibly have information about him when most of what I can find are legit. I know what he his but,his archive is too small for the entirety of the De Luna's and contains no information we can use to crush him.
It contains, ordinary company paper works, little brokers and suppliers; which I've taken care of some of them. Nothing more.
But today, I found something, an S-class broker and supplier, also the De Luna's cleaner.
Which leads me to this warehouse.
The warehouse smells like copper and wet rot — the kind of place where blood doesn't scream anymore. It's buried deep down soaked into the very foundation. Where it has become part of the concrete, like it's second layer.
I walk between the rust meat hooks and black-streak tiles, the cold air settling on my skin like a shroud. The man strung up in the center of the room is stripped to the waist, his wrists chained above his head, feet barely touching the bloody floor. Every shiver of his body made the old chains creak.
He is young, around mid-thirties. Coco Caldera. De Luna's personal "cleaner"— basically their corpse clearly. A man who makes bodies disappear, women cry, and people silent. Sinveer would miss him immediately. He'd feel the hole. If he's gone.
And that's what I need. And also spill some tea for me.
Coco lifted his head when he heard my boots. His face is bruised from when I'd bagged him. His lips split. A rough cut above his brow bleeds sluggishly. He is trembling rattling the chains
Good.
I don't speak as I slowly take off my coat, fold it neatly, and lay it on a steel table beside my tools.
Scalpels. Wires. Bone shears. Clamps. Saline. A single rose stem, strip of petals. And three thin iron rods, each no longer than a forearm.
"Please," he raspes. "I don't— I don't know what this is—"
Picking up the first scalpel, a heat blooms in my chest, in excitement awaiting the pains I'm about to inflict. I walk up to him, placing the scalp on his chest selecting the right place to begin with.
For a breath. Comes a cut. And a truth.
"I'm going to cut you open bit by bit," I say, in a calm voice, clinical even. "Not to find something." I look up, holding his gaze. "Just to watch you come apart, so don't die too easily."
He screams desperately when the first slice opens his right bicep. Clean. Diagonal. Blood streaming, bright and fast.
Over the next two hours, I worked like an artist.
I cut open his fingertips first. I split each nail from the skin with the scalpel. Not torn — slice. He shrieks, tries to twist, but the chains hold. I watch every flinch, every raw sound tearing from his throat. His body trembles violently, continuous piss trailing down each leg.
The pain wouldn't kill him. It would make him beg for death.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He begs.
"What? You are begging already? We're just beginning." I keep the scalpel. "You killed a girl in Medellín last spring," I say softly as I thread a piano wire through the soft skin of his inner thighs. "She was seventeen. She bites you when you force her mouth open. You broke her jaw. Then her ribs. Then you burnt the body, while she was begging."
"How—how the fuck do you know that—"
I smile faintly. "I was there."
That isn't true. As a fool that he is he wouldn't know that.
"I'm sorry, please forgive me. I will change my way. I will become a better man. Please let me go. I don't want to die," he cries, snots and drools on his face.
" Hmm," I shrugged. "When she was begging did you listen to her?"
He says nothing.
"Then what makes you think you are escaping this."
He's sobbing now, looking fucking ugly, guttural.
I pick a wire proceeding to peel his skin. When I peel the skin from his left forearm — inch by inch with the wire loop — he passes out. I pick the ammonia from the table, placing it under his nose. Which brings the fucker back to consciousness. What follows is the inserting of a rod into the muscle of his calf. Not deep enough to sever anything vital. Just enough to make standing impossible.
"I-I'm sor-ry," he mumbles, howling like a dog.
I lean closer to him enough to let him hear my whisper. "Did you know the nervous system keeps feeling pain three seconds after death? Not long. But long enough if you do it right."
He babbles something incoherent.
"Don't worry you don't need to say much. I understand your pain." I kiss his forehead, driving the second rod into the other leg.
By the time I get to reach his ribs, he couldn't scream anymore. His throat was raw. His eyes, bloodshot. His body sagging on the chains, barely conscious.
Then I whisper against his ear.
"When you get to the underworld and you have the chance to be reborn, don't be a trash, okay?" I slam the third rod under his sternum, lift his chin, and slice his carotid clean.
His blood runs fast.
But quietly.
"That does it." I sigh in satisfaction. After cleaning my blades, I pick up a scalpel and draw a raw rose on his chest — not a real one. Just the outline. Thin, shallow cuts. Petals, thorns, stems. Then I tuck the bare rose stem into his mouth.
I glance at my watch. It reads 4:30 am
Fuck it's morning already. I promised Elias I will be taking him out today.
The sky is starting to pale when I step out, stripping off gloves, my sleeves rolled. Warm blood soaks into my boots. My every step leaves a print in the cold dust. And when I looked back at the warehouse door, I smile.