I didn’t stop.
Not until the screaming turned to gurgling. Not until his body slumped like meat and there was nothing left to see with.
I stood, shaking, heart hammering in my chest.
His head lolled sideways on the table, blood dripping steadily from the pulp that used to be his eyes. He was unconscious now—his body slumped, breathing shallow. Good. He’d wake again. I’d make sure of it.
I stepped away, grabbing the bottle of water on the nearby desk and splashing it in his face.
He sputtered, flinched, whimpered like a beaten dog coming back to awareness.
“Not yet,” I murmured. “You don’t get to die that easy.”
I reached for my blade—long, thin, and still clean. That wouldn’t last.
His arm was exposed, the sleeve rolled up from earlier. And there it was—his precious bratva tattoo. The eight-pointed star. That fucking symbol of power, of loyalty, of everything he thought made him untouchable.
“You don’t deserve to carry this,” I muttered.
I pressed the tip of the blade into the skin just outside the ink, and began to cut.
Layer by layer, I carved the skin away—carefully removing the entire patch with surgical precision. He screamed again, jerking hard against the ropes, but it only made me cut deeper.
He passed out.
Again.
When I was done, I held the piece of skin up between my fingers. The ink was still clear. Clean lines. Expensive work.
I know it’s sick. I’m keeping it.
Not as a trophy. As a message.
A reminder to anyone who thinks they can step into my world without consequences.
I walked to the desk, opened the drawers one by one until I found a nylon bag tucked beneath paperwork. I slid the skin inside carefully, sealed it, and pressed the air out.
Then I slapped him across the face. Poured more water. Pressed my thumb into the raw flesh where the tattoo used to be.
He woke up screaming.
I kept going.
Because this wasn’t just about vengeance. This wasn’t pleasure—it was rage. A fury that had lived in me for too long, buried beneath years of pretending, of surviving. Every cut I made came from the part of me that remembered.
I thought of Mila—barely tall enough to reach the counter, standing on a chair with flour dusting her cheeks, grinning as she tried to crack an egg like Mom. I thought of how she always reached for my hand when she got tired, curling up beside me like I was the safest place in the world.
I thought of my mother—her slow decline after Mila vanished. How she stopped eating. How she started talking to empty rooms.
I thought of my father—how he drowned himself in liquor and silence, then lashed out at me like I was the reason she was gone, like I was the ghost he couldn’t drink away.
I was nine. And the day she vanished, I buried my childhood in that sandbox with her.No more innocence. No more safety. He turned my world to ash, so I rose from it burning. I didn’t grow up—I weaponized. Every scar he gave me became a blade I forged to cut him down.
So no—this wasn’t about bloodlust. This was about bringing him into the hell he created for us. About handing him every second of what he gave. About making sure hefeltit, down to the last fraying nerve.
The next hour was a blur of pain and blood. Every time he lost consciousness, I dragged him back. I gave him time between waves—just enough to think it might be over, only to lean in and tell him this was only the beginning.
But eventually, I paused. He was still breathing—barely—but alive. Barely. The room reeked of copper and fear. I stood over him, chest heaving, every inch of me drenched in sweat and his blood. And still, I saw her. Kira. The way her eyes darkened when she told me she wanted to be there next time. The way she made me promise.
