Something alive.
I don't recognize the man before me. I wish I never had to.
He's massive, with a permanent scowl on his face, even now as he's grinning at me in the most unsettling way.
Even in my petrified state, I know exactly what kind of man he is. Not someone who's ever cared about another person in his life. No, this man is cruel.Irredeemablycruel. Not the kind who simply lost his way, drowning under the weight of his choices. No, this manenjoysit. Hethriveson it.
The cruelty isn't a side effect. It's his purpose.
I’ve never been the type to judge a book by its cover, but god… He looks exactly like what he is. His malice isn’t just an aura—it’s him.
His neck is thick and there's a scar slashing right next to his ear. His fingers are stained black with dirt. He's bald. But none of that would matter if it weren’t for that awful, awful smile.
“Take a look at her,” Mark says. “She's harmless.”
Next to this man, he looks like a schoolboy. My husband, who’s been taking care of his body ever since I met him—working out each morning when the sun comes up—looksinsignificant compared to this…thug. Because that’s the only word for him. And even though Mark is doing something he rarely does in front of other people—looking out for me—it still doesn’t have much of an effect.
He doesn’t have the charisma to make a real impression on this guy. The man tilts his head, eyes only flickering in his direction.
“Harmless?” he repeats, voice like gravel. “I'll tell you what's harmless—a bitch with her teeth pulled out. Then, she cannot bite you. But her?” He clicks his tongue. “Not only does she have teeth, but also a voice and a tongue.”
His gaze slides back to me. There's something disgusting in it. Something slimy. I don’t need to read his mind to know what he’s thinking. And I don’t like it one bit.
I force myself to breathe evenly, to swallow the rising panic that’s clawing at my throat and do something.
“How about I…” I say weakly, glancing at Mark, then back at the man. “...just go back to the room? And you two… continue your conversation?”
The bald man’s smile deepens, twisting at the edges like a thing that’s been used too many times, until it’s almost grotesque. His teeth are yellowed and uneven, but each one seems to sparkle with saliva.
He looks at Mark.
“You’ve really put me in quite a tough spot here, Dilano.” His voice is oddly gentle now, like whatever ugliness lingers beneath his skin has momentarily settled.
Mark stiffens. I try to read his face from where I’m standing, but I see what I always do. Composure. His body is the only thing giving him away.
My husband is tense.
“I don't see what I've done,” he responds calmly. “You know I'm reliable.”
The man hums, thinking it over, then laughs.
“So far,” he says. “Why do you think you're still breathing?”
Still… breathing?
What the hell is Mark involved with?
The man puts his big hands on his hips and turns his head, studying my grandmother's house. His eyes scan everything—the hallway with the bedroom, Mark's office, the bathroom. Then he looks up at the ceiling, almost like he's counting the wooden beams stripping it, before he takes a deep breath and exhales through his mouth.
“It’s always one of you types who manage to screw things up when it really counts,” he finally hums. “Look at you. A house, a steady job…health’s good?” Mark nods. “Yeah, no real problems in life. And yet you can’t control your bitch when it's life or death for you.”
“I told you—” Mark starts, but the man cuts him off.
“That she's harmless, and she's reliable,” the man finished for him. “Right.”
I keep my spine straight, my hands at my sides. I do not flinch. I'm so paralyzed that even breathing feels difficult. But I can't bring myself to look at him any longer. Instead, I drop my gaze to the floor, right at his boots, covered in mud, staining Gran's old carpet. The longer I stare at them, the more I feel like I’m sinking.
And then he moves. Not much, but enough. Instead of coming toward us, he steps back, and it's enough to make my gaze snap back to him.
