Wrong answer.
My boot connects with his ribs. The crack echoes through the apartment like a gunshot. Evan curls into himself, choking on air and pain.
“Ex-girlfriend,” I correct, crouching down to his level.
I grab his wrist—the same one that left marks on Mary’s arms. His fingers are soft, weak. Piano player’s hands on a man who’s never built anything in his life.
The first finger snaps clean. Pinky. Just a quick twist.
Evan’s scream tears through the apartment.
Behind me, Mary gasps, a sharp intake that cuts through his wailing.
“Please!” Evan chokes out. “Please, I’m sorry!”
Middle finger. The joint gives way with a wet pop that echoes off the walls.
“OH GOD!” His voice breaks completely. “Stop, please stop!”
Index finger. This one takes more pressure. The cartilage resists before surrendering.
Evan’s trying to crawl away now, his good hand scrabbling against the floor. “I won’t— I’ll never— Mary, tell him—”
Mary makes a sound behind me. Half sob, half whimper.
“Anton—” Mary’s voice. Thin. Shaking.
But I’m too far in. Too far gone. His thumb requires both hands. I grip it between my fingers and twist until I feel everything inside come apart.
The scream that comes out of him isn’t human anymore. Pure agony stripped of everything but sound.
A reaper would finish the job slowly. Bend each finger back until nothing works. Dislocate the shoulder, tear the ligaments. Snap the jaw so the man can’t beg, only gurgle. Then let him choke on his own teeth while the ants do the rest. That’s what he deserves. That’s what I want.
I shift my weight, ready to break the wrist next, when something brushes my arm.
Soft. Trembling. Mary’s hand.
Her touch slams through me harder than any scream. I look down. Hazel eyes, glossy with tears, glassy with fear—but they’re locked on me. Not on him. Me.
“Please,” she whispers. “Don’t.”
Her voice is the only thing keeping me human. It anchors me when everything in me screams for blood.
Somewhere outside, footsteps. Voices. A neighbor calling, “Everything okay in there?” Doors creak open down the hall.
Chert. Not here. Not now. Not with her shaking and half the block about to watch me skin a man alive.
I release him like garbage, shove him flat on the carpet. His groan is pathetic, a stain of sound. I don’t look twice.
Instead, I crouch, scoop Mary into my arms. She stiffens at first, then folds, clutching my shirt with trembling hands.
“Anton—”
“Quiet.” My voice is harsher than I mean, but it steadies her. “You’re done here.”
I carry her through the splintered doorway, down the stairs, past the gawking faces. No one stops me. No one dares.
Lev’s bike waits at the curb, engine still ticking heat. I swing on with her cradled tight against me. Her breath stutters against my throat, warm and alive.
