A cold weight settles in my chest.
Oh. So they’ve really thought this through.
That’s… interesting. And also terrifying.
“And what if someone does smell or see something? What if they come here?” I press, chewing my lip. My gut churns, and Pain, who’s right at my side, sends me a little shiver ofI told you so.
Nathaniel’s smirk vanishes. He straightens up, his posture sharpening like he’s about to swat the question out of the air. But there’s no threat in his face, no cold-blooded promise of violence. Just something eerily patient.
“If you’re asking whether we’d kill someone just for discovering what we do here, then rest assured.” His voice is slow and measured.” We don't kill for stupid reasons like that.”
I flick a glance at Cassian, expecting some kind of reaction. None. Talon, on the other hand, leans in with a grin that’s just wide enough to show teeth.
“So you kill only…” I trail off, trying to find the right words. Nathaniel beats me to it.
“Murderers,” he says, lips pressing into a thin, self-righteous line. “Onlymurderers.”
That shouldn’t be comforting, but in a twisted way, it is. He says it with such certainty, like it’s carved into stone tablets somewhere. Like the universe itself handed them a divine permission slip to dish out homicide.
Only murderers.
Cassian lifts his head and stares at me. I exhale slowly and nod.
“And who decides who's a murderer?”
Nathaniel doesn't even blink. “We do.”
Ah. Of course. No courts, no trials, no lawyers in cheap suits fumbling with paperwork. Just their judgment, their word. A system run by ghosts and killers.
I suppress a shudder and turn toward the furnace. The man inside it? He’s killed before.
“What did he do?” I take a step back, pressing against the cold tile. I don’t know why I’m asking. I already know I won’t like the answer.
Cassian, of all people, is the one who answers. “Earlier, you asked why we painted the whole room with his blood.” He tilts his chin up. “That was his thing. A serial killer. He drained young women, then made them watch as he painted the walls with their blood. It was his ritual. We simply… recreated it.”
My stomach clenches.
He…what?
There's a scowl on Cassian’s face. Probably I have the same. But he, with his hands meticulously arranging instruments ofdeath and destruction, suddenly reminds me of some dark god. A vengeful one.
“That's… vile,” I manage to say.
Talon scoffs, folding his arms over his chest.
“That's one way to put it,” he says. “Tell me, Little Grim, in all the time you've been on the job, have you ever thought that maybe some people deserve to die more than others?”
I hesitate.
Because the answer comes too quickly.
Yes.
I’ve seen the worst of humanity. I’ve reaped the souls of killers, abusers, the kind of people who don’t just take lives—they grind them into dust, chew them up, and spit them back out in the shape of trauma. Some people deserve to die. Iknowthat.
But it’s different when you’re standing in a room with three unhinged murder connoisseurs who have made it their life's mission to personally curate thewho gets to keep breathinglist.
For the past five years, I told myself that punishment is meant to be extracted by a higher power. That's why I'm still stuck on this plane, lingering. That's why my rat bastard ex-husband is alive, living in the house that was supposed to be mine—with a new wife—who, by the way, has redecorated the entire place with a taste level that makes me want to haunt her ass personally. Then again… I never had the power to punish him myself.
