"He'll have a hard time answering," Artan says. His tone is matter-of-fact. "We took several of his teeth. His mouth is too swollen. But before we did that, he confessed. He's part of a group loyal to your father. They wanted to avenge his death."
Luan stops in front of the man.
"All you accomplished," Luan says, his voice soft and terrible, each word precise and deliberate, "was making me temporarily sight-impaired. And angry."
He pauses. Lets that sink in.
"That's a painful combination for you. I'm angry. I can't see well. And I'm going to use this knife until you're dead."
Another pause. The man makes a sound. Begging, maybe. Or just crying.
"Given the circumstances," Luan continues, still in that soft, terrible voice, "I don't think it will be one swift motion. It might require some random stabs to get the job done."
He drives the knife in. Once. The blade sliding between ribs with a sound that's wet and final.
The man screams. The sound is muffled by his ruined mouth, wet and choked, but still loud in the enclosed space. Still human enough to make my skin prickle.
Luan pulls the knife out. Stabs again. Then again. Methodical. Controlled. Each strike deliberate.
I light a cigarette. The flame from my lighter casts brief shadows that dance across the walls. I watch. Artan motions for one too and I give it to him, the cherry of his cigarette glowing orange in the dim light.
The screaming continues. Rises. Then chokes off into something liquid and desperate. Then stops.
The man slumps forward in the chair. Not breathing. Not moving. Blood pooling beneath the chair, spreading across the concrete in a dark stain.
Dead.
Luan steps back. Wipes the blade on the dead man's shirt with calm efficiency. Sheathes it. His breathing is even. Controlled. Like he just finished a workout, not an execution.
We smoke in silence. The only sounds are the faint hum of the refrigeration units upstairs, the soft crackle of tobacco burning, and the occasional drip of blood hitting concrete.
The smoke drifts up toward the single light bulb. Settles in the corners of the basement like fog.
I break the silence. "So. About Lily."
Luan's head turns toward me. His expression doesn't change but something shifts in his eyes. "What about my fiancée?"
Artan takes a long pull from his cigarette. Raises a brow. Releases the smoke slowly, deliberately. "Don't you meanfakefiancée?"
More silence. Heavier this time. Weighted with everything we're not saying.
I exhale. "We all want her."
Both men bristle immediately. Luan's jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath skin. Artan's hand moves like he wants to reach for a weapon, old instincts firing.
I hold up my palms. Conciliatory. "I'm being honest. We all want her. And she's attracted to all three of us. So she should be the one to decide."
I'm not sure I'm comfortable with what I'm suggesting. I'm the underdog here.
But it's the truth. And truth is stronger than any lie I could tell, any game I could play.
"In the end, it's her choice," I continue. Keep my voice steady. Reasonable. "If she wants any of us. Let's face it, we're not exactly relationship material."
"Are you saying we should compete for her?" Artan asks. His voice is tight, controlled fury barely leashed. "Like she's a prize to win?"
"No." I shake my head. "I'm saying we don't get to decide. She does. She chooses. One of us. None of us. All of us. Her choice."
Luan is quiet. Watching me with those clear green eyes. Calculating. Running scenarios. Weighing risks and benefits the way he always does.
