“I’ll apologize to him,” he cries, voice strained and breaking. “I’ll do… anything.”
I crouch beside him, slow and deliberate.
“Then do me a favor,” I whisper, calm as sin. “And wait for me in hell.”
And with one swift motion, I slice off his dick; he screams, blood splashing everywhere. His scream doesn’t last for long because I take it and stuff his mouth with it, choking him with it. He struggles, but I don’t give him time.
My fist crashes into his mouth, cracking bone, knocking teeth loose. He whimpers—maybe tries to, since his mouth is full, but I’m not done.
I grab his throat, fingers digging deep, locking tight. His legs flail, his back arches, and still I hold, unblinking.
His lungs start to fail. His face turns a sick shade of red, then purple. His fingers claw at mine, desperate, useless. I want him to feel it, every second of it. I need him to know this is how he dies. Not with dignity. Not with peace. But with his own filth stuffed down his throat, and me watching.
“Your apology wouldn’t have changed a thing in his life,” I whisper, voice low, steady, eyes never leaving his. “Lucas stilllives with what you did, so now, you get to die with it buried deep in your mouth; his name will hunt you even in hell.”
His eyes stop moving.
His chest stops fighting.
His brain gives up.
I stay like that, hand still tight on his throat, just to feel the last twitch, the last pulse under my palm.
After a while, I let go and rise. A slow, satisfied exhale escapes my chest.
Josh is still strapped to the chair, wide-eyed, soaked in sweat, frozen in place, and clearly traumatized. His mouth is open, but no sound comes out, just trembling breath and the stink of fear.
I step toward him and shrink in like prey.
He opens his mouth, desperate to beg, but I don’t give him the chance.
The knife drives upward under his jaw, clean and deliberate. His body jerks. His eyes roll.
I pull the blade out slowly, savoring the sound, watching the blood pour.
He gurgles, chokes, eyes wide and wild.
I crouch to his level.
“Let the name Lucas be the last thing you remember,” I say, voice ice-cold. “I’m the karma he sent.”
And with that, I slice his dick off and force it down his throat, blood pools around the mess in his mouth, and the last thing he chokes on is his own blood and his own fucking dick.
With a final glance at the lifeless bodies behind me, I pull my helmet on, take my gun and the leftover cigarette, then I walk out of the apartment complex, the scent of blood still clinging to my gloves.
I ride to the underground parking lot and kill the engine. As I dismount, one of our men approaches—plain black baseballcap, face mask, no words—just a nod. I give him one in return and hand over the keys. He swings onto the bike and rides off like a ghost into the dark.
I head toward the waiting car, the back door already open, then slip inside and shut it behind me.
Mike glances at me in the rearview mirror.
“All went well, sir?”
I lean back against the leather and exhale.
“Very well, Mike.”
He nods once and starts the engine.
