Emma breaks before the name even finishes leaving his mouth. Her hands shake as she grabs the card, nearly dropping it. When she flips it over, she freezes.
A metal plate. A hand. Flames carved into it.
Her breath stutters. “No. No—no.”
Elliot watches her, head slightly tilted, like he’s working something out. Then he almost smiles. “You know what, Emma,” he says, voice calm, almost reassuring. “It’s actually not that bad after a bit. First part’s rough, yeah. But give it a few seconds…” He shrugs lightly. “Your nerves die. Stops you from feeling all of it.”
She shakes her head harder, panic spilling over. “Please—don’t—please—”
He meets her eyes, steady. “You just have to get through the beginning.”
The guards grab her before she can pull away. They drag her across the floor toward the wall. The plate glows orange-yellow, heat rolling off it in waves that warp the air. Sweat breaks across Emma’s skin instantly, dampening her hair, streaking down her neck.
She fights them, heels scraping, sobbing so hard she chokes on it. They wrench her arm straight and slam it against the metal.
The sound hits first. A wet, violent sizzle.
Then the smell.
Burnt flesh, thick and choking, sinking into the back of my throat.
Emma screams.
It tears through the room, high and jagged, loud enough to make my ears ring. Her skin blisters on contact, swelling and stretching before splitting open. Clear fluid spills down her arm, hissing as it hits the plate. Parts of her skin stick there, pulled tight against the metal.
Elliot doesn’t look away. “Very good, Emma. That’s probably the worst of it.”
Beside him, Sophie inhales slowly, like she’s savoring it.
“Mmm,” she murmurs, a faint smile pulling at her mouth. “Smells like Beth in here.”
Emma thrashes, howling, her voice cracking raw.
When the guards finally tear her away, her arm does not come free cleanly. Strips of skin peel off and stay behind, stretched and torn. Patches of raw muscle glisten beneath, red and exposed, trembling as air hits it.
Emma collapses to the floor, sobbing and rocking on her knees. She clutches what is left of her hand and forearm against her chest, fingers curled around something no longer recognizable as her own.
The smoke drifts upward.
Elliot finally turns his attention to Miles.
“Miles,” he says with enthusiasm. “You’re next.”
Miles steps forward, but he moves like his body is on a delay, like whatever keeps him anchored has already slipped loose. His hand shakes as he draws his card and turns it over.
An eye. A needle.
A broken sound escapes him before he can stop it.
The guards grab him immediately. One yanks his arms back and locks them high behind him. Another clamps a hand around his jaw and forces his head still, thumb grinding into the side of his skull until his face angles just right. Miles kicks and twists, breath coming apart in short bursts, but the hold is firm. He is positioned for precision, not mercy.
Elliot steps forward. He takes the needle himself.
Miles sees it coming and starts to sob, a thin, frantic sound that shakes through his whole body.
“No. Please. Please!” he yells, words slurring together.
Elliot brings the needle to the inner corner of Miles’s eye.
