Then I got in the car, shut the door, and turned the engine over.
In the rearview mirror, I caught the first twitch.
He was waking up. He looked like shit—face beaten to hell, a knife still lodged in his shoulder with a deep, wet bloodstain spreading around it. Shock hadn’t worn off yet, but pain was definitely catching up.
I smirked, adjusting the mirror just enough to enjoy the show. His head rolled against the seat, groggy and sluggish, the gag in his mouth wet with spit and reeking of sour milk, the filth clinging to his chin like the aftermath of a punishment.
“Well, well,” I drawled. “Wake up, sunshine. Big night ahead. Thought you’d sleep through your own execution?”
He thrashed weakly, letting out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a curse.
“Aw. Look at you. So full of life.” I chuckled. “Any last wishes? Last words? Last meal?” I paused, then added with a laugh, “Nah. You don’t deserve a sandwich.”
He tried to sit up, twisting against the rope binding him, drooling against the gag like a rabid dog. Fuck, should’ve brought plastic sheets. Am I new at this?
“You know what cracks me up, Felix?” I said, glancing back with a sneer. “You came to a filthy little party with the cameras conveniently off, but all you really accomplished was erasing any record of me and Kira arranging your death.”
I watched him through the rearview mirror, my lip curling with open disgust.
“You like them young and helpless, don’t you?” I went on quietly. “Just like your friends. Humiliating them. Breaking them… Don’t worry. Soon you’re going to learn exactly what helpless feels like.”
He growled behind the gag, kicking like a dying animal in the last throes of fight, pitiful and loud.
“Okay, fine.” I let my head roll back with a sigh, smiling to myself. “You know your real mistake? You picked the one girl you should’ve never laid a finger on. Touched what’s mine. Hurt what’s mine. Big fucking error.”
My grip on the wheel turned white-knuckled. I shifted just enough for him to see my eyes in the mirror—see what he’d woken up.
“Youcalled her a whore.”
My voice dropped to a growl, deep and feral. “I’m going to carve your tongue out for that.”
His eyes widened. Good. He should be scared.
“But the worst part?” I leaned toward the mirror, locking eyes with him. “You watched. You watched me fuck her. Saw the way she moaned. The way she broke. Which, technically—not even your fault. That’s on me. But you’ll pay for it anyway.”
He made a noise of confusion, rage, whatever the hell was still left in that rotted brain.
“There’s no plan,” I said. “No routine. Just instincts. And mine? They’re ugly. You touched what’s mine. So now I’m going to hurt you until I get bored or you stop breathing. Whichever comes first.”
I obviously was lying. There was always a plan.
I smiled, real slow. “I’m a fucking psycho, Felix. You don’t evenknowwhat unlucky looks like. But you’re about to.”
By the time I made it home, the sun had already risen, casting its first light over the quiet street.
I parked on the curb and climbed out, slamming the car door behind me. Across the road, an old woman stood by the dumpster, feeding a huddle of stray cats. She turned when she heard the noise, caught sight of me, and froze mid-motion—her plastic bag of stale bread suspended in the air, fingers curled tightly around it.
Her eyes widened to the size of saucers.
Blood had soaked clean through my shirt. It streaked across my face, clung to strands of my hair, and dried in dark patches on my arms. My boots were caked in filth. My hands stained to the wrists. I probably looked like I’d clawed my way out of a grave.
Or put someone in one.
She clutched her chest and made the sign of the cross. Her lips moved silently, prayer spilling out in panic.
I lifted a hand and offered her a casual wave. “Relax, babushka. Not your turn.”
The bag slipped from her fingers. Bread rolls scattered across the pavement with dull thuds as the cats bolted, vanishing like startled ghosts.
