I hear it then.
A wet, heavy thud. Like a sack of grain being dropped on a hard floor.
Then a groan. It isn't a human sound. It’s the sound a broken animal makes when it’s forgotten how to scream.
Fuck.
Every survival instinct I’ve ever honed is screaming at me to run, go back to my bedroom and hide under the covers and pretend the world ends at the doorframe.
Instead, I follow the sound because I’m dumb like that.
A sudden heavy, humid wave rolls down the corridor and coats the back of my throat, making me gag. It’s the smell of a slaughterhouse. Thick, metallic copper, blood, so much of it I can taste it on my tongue, mingled with the sharp, acidic sting of stomach acid and the humid, salty stink of human terror. It’s the smell of a body failing, of skin and bone being forced into places they weren't meant to go.
My stomach revolts.
I press a hand to my mouth, my heart suddenly a frantic drum in my ears, pounding so hard my vision flickers with every pulse. This is definitely not a kitchen or a prized wine cellar. This is…
I reach a heavy steel door, tucked into an alcove. It’s slightly ajar, a sliver of harsh, flickering white light spilling onto the floor. The light is clinical, neon-cold, vibrating with a low hum that grates against my nerves. Through the crack, the stench is absolute.
My lungs refuse to take another full breath, as if they know the air inside that room is poisoned.
I shouldn’t be here, I think, but my hand is already moving, pushing the door wider.
Once I see what the room holds, I know for certain that I shouldNOTbe here.
The room is a nightmare. Concrete floors, a single drain in the center, and a man tied to a heavy wooden chair. It’s Fredo. One of the men who usually eats breakfast in the kitchen.
His face is a ruin. One eye is swollen shut, a purple-black knot of flesh. His lip is split so deeply I can see the white of his teeth through the blood. He’s slumped forward, his breath coming in shallow, gurgling rasps.
Oh God, Fredo. He gave me coffee two days ago.
My chest is hollowing out, a cold, jagged vacuum of pure terror.
And then there is Rafael.
He has his jacket off. His white shirt is ruined, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms. He is splattered with red—fine mists across his chest, a dark smear on his jaw.
He doesn't look angry. He doesn't look like a man in a rage.
He looks like a man doing his taxes.
He’s holding a pair of heavy pliers in one hand. With the other, he reaches out and grabs Fredo’s chin, forcing the man’s head up. Rafael’s face is a mask of cold, clinical detachment.
"I’m going to ask you again, Fredo," Rafael says, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that fills the small room. "And I want you to think very carefully about your answer. Because you have ten fingers, and we’ve only accounted for two of them."
Fredo sobs, a spray of red hitting the floor. "I-I didn't... I swear... I don't know who... please..."
"Wrong answer," Rafael sighs.
He doesn't hesitate. He moves with the economical precision of a surgeon. He grips Fredo’s hand, pinning it to the arm of the chair. The pliers find the nail of the middle finger.
I want to look away. I need to look away. But I am paralyzed, my feet rooted to the cold stone of the hallway.
Rafael twists.
The sound is a sickening, wet crunch followed by a shriek that shatters the silence of the basement. Fredo’s body spasms, the chair rattling against the concrete. Rafael doesn't flinch. He watches the nail come away, the raw, red bed of the finger weeping fresh blood. He tosses the piece of keratin onto a small metal tray.
Clink.
