Diego is more awake now, the sedative wearing off, his eyes going wide as he takes in his surroundings. Marcus and Rodriguez strip him efficiently—clothes, shoes, watch,everything. Leave him in just his boxers, shivering in the cool air.
Then they chain him to the chair—wrists, ankles, chest. Secure enough that he can’t move, can’t escape, can barely even shift his weight.
“Leave us,” Charles says to Marcus and Rodriguez. “Wait outside. Make sure we’re not disturbed.”
They nod, disappearing through the door.
And then it’s just the three of us.
Charles. Me. Diego.
I walk slowly to the wall where my tools are arranged. Most of them are traditional—knives of various sizes, pliers, hammers, things that have been used for interrogation for centuries.
But some are my own design.
Like the drill.
It looks innocuous at first—just a modified power tool, compact, battery-operated. But the bit I’ve attached isn’t meant for wood or metal.
It’s meant for flesh.
When activated, the bit extends small metal spikes—a dozen of them, each one sharp as a needle, each one positioned to cause maximum pain with minimum actual damage. It looks like a fucked-up tiny Christmas tree, all sharp edges and no mercy.
I pick it up, testing the weight, letting Diego see it.
His eyes go wider. He starts to hyperventilate behind the gag.
I turn it on.
The motor whirs to life, and the spikes extend with a series of small clicks. It’s loud in the quiet room—mechanical, merciless, promising pain in a way that words never could.
Diego’s entire body goes rigid with terror.
I let it run for a few seconds, watching him, watching the fear build. Watching him understand exactly how bad this could get.
Then I turn it off. Set it down on the table next to him where he can see it.
“That’s for later,” I say conversationally. “If you make us work for information. If you waste our time. If you lie.”
I pull the gag from his mouth. He immediately starts babbling.
“Please, please, I don’t know what you think I did but I swear?—”
“Diego.” Charles’s voice cuts through the panic like a blade. “We know about the plates. We know you made them. We know they were used in an attack that put my family in danger. Four children under the age of six. My wife. My sister. So let’s skip the denials and get to the part where you tell us everything.”
“I— I can explain?—”
“Then explain.” I lean against the table, arms crossed. “Who hired you to make those plates?”
Diego’s mouth opens and closes. He’s calculating, trying to figure out if there’s any play here, any way to minimize the damage.
There isn’t.
“I’m going to ask you questions, Diego,” I say quietly. “And you’re going to answer. Every time you lie, or refuse to answer, or waste my time—” I gesture to the drill. “—we escalate. Do you understand?”
He nods frantically.
“Good. Now. Who hired you to make those plates?”
