But because I recognize that rage.
It reminds me too much of my past.
“I'm not telling you to be merciful,” I say, quieter now, controlled. “I'm saying we don’t need to turn this into something worse than it already is. We already know what she is. We know what she’s done. We don’t need to drag it out just because we’re pissed.”
Nathaniel watches me, eyes sharp. Calculating.
Then, after a long moment, hesmiles.
Not his usual smug smirk. Not his usual I-know-something-you-don’t expression.
This is different.
This is almost… approving.
Cassian exhales sharply and turns back toward the table, rolling his shoulders.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Let’s just get it over with, then. I have no problem killing the usual fuckers, but this one? Even I feel weird about it.”
Which is saying something.
By the looks of it, everyone agrees.
Nathaniel steps forward, retrieving the vial of tetrodotoxin from his coat. The final dose. The one that will stop her heart for good.
Laura Collins lets out a weak, strangled sound—a pathetic attempt at a plea.
I don’t look away.
“You don’t get to beg,” I tell her. “Not after what you’ve done.”
Of course, she cannot hear me. But I don’t really care in the moment. It just feels like something that needs to be said.
“You’re a bad person,” I mutter. “And bad people get punished. Your only misfortune? You’ll get punished by these bastards rather than the big guys upstairs.” I gesture vaguely toward the sky.
I stay quiet about the fact that I have no clue how the system would actually punish her. But weirdly, it’s comforting—these three men who break the rules. They won’t hesitate to deliver the blow, to induce the fear, to actually dish out some tangible justice.
Even if it’s just a fraction of what she deserves.
Nathaniel crouches down, his voice a whisper as he tilts her chin up. “You believe in Hell, Laura?”
A flicker of something in her eyes. Desperation. Terror. She cannot move much, but somehow, I see the shift clear as day. Something primal. The understanding that this isit. Thatwhatever power she thought she held—over her victims, over their families, over the sick little world she built for herself—is gone.
Nathaniel tilts his head, studying her.
“I think you do,” he murmurs. “I think you know exactly what’s waiting for you on the other side. And I think… you’re terrified.”
He takes the syringe, filling it with the final dose. Lifts it, rolling it between his fingers before pressing the needle lightly against her throat. Not piercing—just resting there.
“But you know what else I think?” he continues. “That hell is too good for you. See, we’re not your typical executioners. We’re not like you—killing for the fun of it.” He gestures vaguely. “My friends and I? We see things. The supernatural. Death itself.”Dramatic pause. A little too long for comfort.”If you were just any other murderer, you might’ve been lucky enough to simply die,” he continues, voice dipping low. “But you? You’re special. So we’ve got something special planned for you.”Then, just when you’d expect a knife twist or some unhinged monologue about justice, he… casually drops the syringe into her lap. Just plop. Like a weird party favor.
And then, because clearly, this moment wasn’t theatrical enough, he reaches for his eye.
For a second, I think,Oh God, he’s about to rip his eyeball out. But no—he just pops out a contact lens.
It takes me a second to realize what’s happening. His left eye—the one that’s always looked a little too extra—shifts. The overly bright, fake blue sharpens into something unnatural, something glowing, something just like the other two have.
Across from us, Laura Collins sees it too.
