Stop letting him win.
I straighten slowly, my breathing still ragged but more controlled.
The voices are still there, still loud, but suddenly I’m not drowning in them anymore.
“You’re right,” I say quietly, and Torres’s triumphant expression falters slightly. “I was having a breakdown. About which approach would be most effective with someone like you.”
The shift in my tone makes him blink, confusion creeping into his eyes.
“See, I have access to different perspectives on persuasion,” I continue, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “And I was trying to choose between them instead of using them all.”
I don’t fight the voices anymore.
I let them exist, let them rage, but I don’t let them control me.
Giuseppe’s brutality, Sophia’s manipulation, and yes—even without his voice, Matteo’s strategic thinking is still there, embedded in everything he taught me.
“Thank you,” I tell Torres softly. “For showing me exactly who you think I am. Now let me show you who I actually am.”
I move to the supplies in the corner, my movements deliberate now instead of frantic.
The voices are still there.
Giuseppe is demanding immediate brutality, while Sophia whispers about psychological manipulation—but they’re background noise rather than controlling chaos.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Marcus,” I say, pulling on latex gloves with steady hands. The rubber snaps against my wrists with a sharp sound that echoes in the small room. “I’m going to apply very precise pressure to specific nerve clusters. Nothing permanent, nothing that will leave lasting damage. Just enough discomfort to make thinking clearly…difficult.”
I select a thin metal instrument from the interrogation tools, testing its weight. Torres watches my movements now with growing wariness instead of amusement.
“While you’re dealing with that physical stress,” I continue, my voice taking on an almost clinical tone, “I’m going to speak to you with complete understanding and compassion. I’ll acknowledge your pain, sympathize with your situation, maybe even apologize for having to cause you discomfort.”
I move behind his chair again, close enough that he can feel my presence but can’t see what I’m doing. “The combination is quite effective, you see. Your body will be processing acute discomfort while your mind struggles to reconcile gentle words with deliberate torture. It creates afascinatingpsychological conflict.”
“You’re bluffing,” Torres says, but his voice lacks the confidence it had before. “You don’t have the stomach for real interrogation.”
“You’re probably right,” I agree easily, moving back around to face him. “A few minutes ago, I would have broken down completely if you’d kept pushing. But you made a mistake, Marcus.”
I lean forward slightly, meeting his eyes directly. “You showed me that my self-doubt was more dangerous than any physical threat you could pose. And once I realized that, everything else became very simple.”
The first application of pressure makes Torres’s breath hiss sharply through his teeth. His jaw clenches, muscles standing out in his neck.
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately, my voice full of genuine warmth. “I know that’s uncomfortable. I really don’t want to hurt you, Marcus, but you’re not giving me much choice here.”
“That’s…that’s nothing,” he pants, but sweat is already beading on his forehead. “I’ve been through worse.”
I tut sympathetically. “I’m sure you have,” I agree, maintaining steady pressure. “Your training was probably excellent. But this isn’t about your pain tolerance, is it? This is about how long you can think clearly while I’m doing this.”
After two minutes, his breathing becomes labored. “Okay…okay, stop. Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing to me?”
“Just some pressure points,” I explain gently, easing off slightly. The relief makes him sag. “Nothing permanent. See? Much better when I stop.”
“You’re…you’re fucking insane,” he gasps.
My brow furrows. “I don’t think so. I think I’m being very reasonable.” I move to a different location. “All I need is basic information. Where’s the shipment, Marcus?”
The pressure resumes. This time he lasts maybe ninety seconds before: “Shit! Shit, okay, the docks! It’s at the fucking docks!”
“Which docks?” I ask patiently, not stopping the pressure. “There are a lot of docks in the city.”
