“You should save that shit for the men headed to your boyfriend’s studio.”
I stop cold.
“What thefuckdid you just say?”
Ryo raises his hands.
“Calm the fuck down, man. I’mhelpingyou. Just listen.”
“I’m gonna rip your spine out through your goddamn throat if you don’t tell me what the fuck you just said.”
“They know about Takahashi Naoya. They know everything. Rope master, private studio, lives above it. He’s not exactly low-profile.”
I grab him by the collar and slam him back against the seat of his own fucking bike.
“Say his name again and IswearI’ll make you eat your fucking tongue.”
“I’m telling you this because I don’twantthem to get him, you stupid fuck,” Ryo says, panting, eyes flicking toward my blade. “They are going there now. Probably already there. I don’t know what they’re planning, but it’s not good. They want him to use againstyou.”
Naoya-san is not weak. He tiesgodsinto knots and makes them whimper. He’s silent steel. Rope and control and that gaze that sees through bones. But I know how these people work.
And I know what they’ll do toget to me.
“Get on,” Ryo says, shoving his helmet at me. “Leave your car. It’s faster this way. Come on, man.”
I’m already climbing behind him before I realize my body is moving.
“Drive.”
And he fucking does.
* * *
People think the worst part of killing is the blood. Fucking amateurs.
Blood is easy. Blood cleans off with hot water and citrus soap. Blood smells like metal and it’s annoying after a while, sure, but it doesn’t cling if you know how to scrub. You get used to it. Youeven start to crave the sting in your nose when it’s fresh, like the moment before a lightning strike.
No. Anyone who killed before will say the worst part is the sound.
That tiny little gasp when someone realizes they will really die. That soft flutter in the throat, when the knife sinks too deep or the bullet rips through something vital. That fucking sound lives in your bones if you’re not careful. It sets up shop somewhere between your molars and your spine and it waits. Justfucking waitsfor the right moment to torment you.
It’s what I usually collect.
Today, I don’t collect shit.
The studio smells wrong before I even kick the door in. It’s not rope and clean wood and the gentle scent of Naoya-san’s skin. It’s sweat. It’s cigarette smoke. It’s dirt and alcohol andmen.
Too many fucking men.
I don’t know what I was expecting. But it wasn’t this.
The ropes are on the floor, scattered like garbage. Everything around is broken, including the shitIbroke before and have been fixed. And on the center mat, Naoya-san is tied down.
His body is bent wrong, his wrists are tied byhis own rope.His legs are being forced open. There’s one bastard between them, fumbling, trying to loop a tie around his thigh while two others yank at his knees. His shirt is torn open, his chest bruised. His fuckingnose—
I see red.
Not metaphorical red, like people usually say. I meanred.Literal red. My vision floods with it. My lungs go tight. My hands move before I know it. And when I come back to myself, I’m standing in the middle of the studio and it’s soaked in it.
