"Boss—I didn't—she saved—"
I drop him. He crashes to his knees, gasping.
"Next person who mentions her dietary recommendations loses fingers. Clear?"
"Yes, boss." He scrambles for the scattered wood.
"Go."
He flees. At least some things remain intact.
The smell gets worse as I descend. Food. Real food. Not the stale bread and questionable meat we usually subsist on, but actual cooking. In my compound.
I find my torture chamber converted into a dining hall. Tables. Actual tables. Twenty of my killers sitting together. Eating. Conversing. Someone's laughing.
Laughing.
In my torture chamber.
She's in the middle of it all, handing out bowls. Flour in her hair. Paint under her fingernails. Same blood-stained dress from yesterday.
"Smaller bites, Tooth. Your stomach's still recovering." She ladles out what might be porridge. "And you—finish the tonic."
I take inventory. Finn actually taking notes—about food storage, from what I can see. Silent Syl signing enthusiastically, which is disturbing since she hasn't communicated in four years. Gray Streak looking content.
This is worse than a full guild war. At least those have established procedures.
"Olivia."
The room freezes. Finally.
She turns. Relief crosses her face, then concern. Her hands flutter at her sides before she catches them.
"You're up! Good. That's— How's the nausea? Any vertigo?" She's already moving toward me, then stops. Starts again. "Did you drink water? You should drink water. Lots of water. Or not lots. A normal amount."
"Stop."
She stops.
"You're in my compound."
"Yes, well, someone had to make sure you didn't die in your sleep." She pauses. "Your color's much better. How's your vision? Any spots?"
I cross the room in four strides. Grab her wrist. My shadows surge, and suddenly we're elsewhere. Roof. Cold morning air. The city spread below.
The shadow travel takes more out of me than it should. Black spots dance in my vision—funny, she just asked about that. My knees want to buckle but I lock them.
She stumbles as we materialize, gasping. Has to grab my arm to stay upright, then jerks back.
"That was—" Her voice cracks. She clears her throat. "That was unnecessary. I hadn't finished breakfast."
But her hands are shaking. Finally. A normal human reaction.
Something snaps.
The shadows explode outward. Not controlled, not directed—just raw fury given form. They tear across the roof, shredding morning air. Crack the stone beneath our feet. Form blades that could peel skin from bone, tentacles that have strangled grown men, walls of pure darkness.
They touch everything.
