She held one glass in each hand, turned to me, and smiled.
The show was about to begin.
She walked toward him without hesitation.
Felix lay slumped on the floor beside the armchair, his arms bound tightly behind his back. Blood dried in cracked lines along his mouth, and the knife still jutted grotesquely from his shoulder. His eyes were glassy, unfocused—but conscious enough to understand what was coming.
She crouched in front of him and tilted her head slightly, studying him the way someone might examine a stain. Then she looked up at me. “Sit him up,” she said calmly. “And loosen the gag. I want him to choke on this properly.”
Without a word, I nudged him onto his back with my foot, grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and hauled him upright until he slumped against the armchair. Then I pulled the tie from his mouth.
“Open your mouth,” she said calmly. Then her voice sharpened. “Open it, you filthy animal.”
He tried to laugh. It came out wet and broken.
He didn’t open it.
“Do as she says,” I told him quietly.
He glared at me through swollen lids, stubborn even now. So I reached down, fisted my hand in his hair, and wrenched his head back. The movement pulled at the blade lodged in his shoulder and he screamed—raw, cracked, desperate.
“Open,” I repeated.
His jaw trembled. He gave in.
She lifted the first glass.
The milk poured slowly at first, a thin white stream slipping past his lips. He tried to clamp his mouth shut, but I tightened my grip, forcing his head back farther. The milk spilled over his tongue, down his throat. He gagged instantly.
He tried to cough it out, but it flooded his mouth, his nose. White liquid spilled from his nostrils as he choked, sputtering, jerking against my hold.
She didn’t rush.
She kept pouring.
His eyes bulged. Milk ran down his chin, soaking into his already blood-stained shirt. He tried to twist away, but every movement sent another jolt of pain through his shoulder and he collapsed back, gasping for air he couldn’t catch.
He sucked in a breath—milk went with it. He choked harder, coughing violently, the sound thick and desperate.
She emptied the first glass.
He sagged forward, hacking, trying to clear his airway.
She picked up the second glass.
“No,” he croaked, barely audible.
She tipped his chin up with two fingers.
“Yes.”
And she began again.
When the second glass was empty, she rose to her feet, legs trembling from the slow burn of adrenaline and release. Felix was still coughing wetly, mucus and milk bubbling at the corners of his mouth. I stepped forward and yanked the gag back over his mouth, tying it tight as he let out a hoarse, sputtering groan.
I looked at her and for a heartbeat, I thought I’d pushed her too far—that this was the moment it all cracked, the moment she slipped beyond something I couldn’t fix. I’d never seen her like that before. Not even close.
But then she looked at me.
