Ellis’s voice lingered louder than fingers ever could. His breath still lived in the space between my shoulder blades, where he hadn’t touched—but made me feel it anyway. His words hadn’t just planted fear. They rooted something else. Resolve.
The chain shifted when I adjusted my stance. My arms were numb. My toes curled against tile so cold it felt alive. The thin dress whipped against my thighs in the wind, pressing to every hollow like fabric could finish what silence hadn’t.
I was still gagged by absence. Still tied by performance. But the paper in my waistband didn’t move.
Camille’s signature stayed warm against my skin, like it knew I was still listening. Like it wasn’t ink, but memory. A final confession. Or a prayer so sharp it had to be folded just to be hidden.
If I had spoken then, it would have been to her. But I didn’t. Because this wasn’t a moment for voice. It was a moment for breath.
I inhaled. Slow. Deep. Felt the pain ripple through my ribs. Let it settle in the pit of my stomach like something sacred.
Then I hummed. One note. Low. Wrecked. It scraped up my throat like it had claws.
I closed my eyes. Let it vibrate against the chain. Let it touch the collar that wasn’t there. Let it pulse through the city air that didn’t care if I lived.
Then I did it again. And again. Each time softer. Each time stronger.
Because this wasn’t a scream.This was survival rewritten.This was my leash snapping back into his hands. Because I knew what Wolfe would do when he heard it.
He wouldn’t call my name. He wouldn’t kick down the door. He would walk. And each step would be a sentence. Each breath a vow. I didn’t beg. But I prayed.
“If you’re going to break me,” I whispered to no one, “don’t do it in silence.”
The wind caught the words and carried them nowhere. But I didn’t need them to reach God. Only Wolfe.
And I knew he was already listening.
Wolfe
I stood in front of the screens. Shards of glass littered the floor. Blood dripped from my hand—I hadn’t felt the cut. Didn’t care. Her breath still lingered in the air like incense, like sin. Like a fucking sacrifice.
The feed stuttered. Flickered. Then shifted.New angles. New men.
Not around her. Behind me.At first, I thought it was another camera trick. Another torment. A trick of light in the corner of the frame.
But then the shadows on screen moved…and the sound came from the room.Footsteps. Measured. Controlled. Like a countdown ticking in flesh.
I turned just as they stepped forward—three men in black. Blades drawn. Gloves tight.
No masks. No orders shouted. They didn’t need any. They weren’t here to threaten. They were here to end it. The screen behind me still played.
Her knees hitting stone.Her body dragged.Her throat forced open by reverent, bloodstained hands.
They wanted me to see it. And now they wanted me dead with it. Not just a witness. A burial. But they were late.
I was already gone. What stood in that room wasn’t a man. It was the answer to a vow. A wrath their gods couldn’t swallow. A silence sharper than steel. I didn’t scream.I moved.
And this time, the only thing that got hollowed…was them. Behind them, mounted to the wall of a derelict building, a massive screen flickered to life.
Cloe.
Spotlit. Shackled. Shown like proof of ownership. Her hum looped once—soft, fractured—then cut.
The first man lunged. I let him come. Dropped to one knee, let the weight of my blood pull me low—then drove my remaining blade into his thigh, twisted, ripped upward through the groin. He fell without a sound.
The second one came with precision—military-trained, elbow first, knee second. He caught my side. My wound split. I tasted copper.
He grinned—just for a second. Then I headbutted him. Twice. His nose broke. Cartilagecrunched. I took his blade from his belt before he hit the ground. Drove it into his throat while he was still blinking from the stars.
