The Trap and the Revelation
I go so fast my spine locks.
The tunnel forks ahead like a split vein—two arteries pumping the same dark promise straight into the heart of something fucked.
And there on the stone—
Blood.
Not splattered.Not sprayed.
Dragged.
A thin, glistening line in the lantern glow, like someone tried to stay upright and failed one step at a time.
Fresh, still wet enough to shine.
My grip tightens on the knife. My stance shifts without conscious thought, my body sliding half in front of Pia, violence already loaded before my mind bothers to catch up.
I listen.
Past the dripping water.Past the low groan of old stone.Past the roar of the pulse in my ears.
There—
Footsteps.
Faint.Retreating.
Not frantic.Not wild.
Controlled. Measured. The sound of men walking away because that was the plan, not because they got scared.
They’re not running.
They’re moving.
My teeth grind.
“Oh, you motherf—”
Pia leans in, her breath a ghost against my shoulder. “Why would they run?” she whispers.
They didn’t.
That’s the problem.
“They got what they came for,” I say quietly.
The words taste wrong as soon as I hear them out loud. Too heavy. Too final.
Her fingers curl into my sleeve. “Santino… what are you talking about?”
I turn to her.
Not gentle.
Every instinct in me is screaming, and I’m done trying to tame any of it.
