The weapon room feels different now that we're using it for its implied purpose. Torture.
Ares secures the door behind us while I clear a space in the center, dragging a heavy wooden chair in from the adjacent study.
Whitlock's eyes move frantically around the room, fear blooming on his face as he realizes where we've brought him. His tidy silver hair is disheveled now, and sweat is beading along his hairline despite the room's chill.
"Secure him," Ares commands, his voice eerily calm as he removes his jacket and rolls up his sleeves.
I bind Whitlock to the chair using some silk ties from the wall curtain, and his wrists turn purple as he struggles against my knots.
"You have no idea what you're doing," Whitlock hisses, managing to speak now that Ares has released his throat. "Do you know who I am? The connections I have?"
I step back, crossing my arms as I lean against one of the display cases. "That's exactly what we intend to find out."
Ares walks as if he’s still debating what weapon to choose first as he approaches the first glass case. He punches through it without a second thought, not bothering to ask for a key, glass shards slicing his knuckles as he extracts a slender knife with acurved blade. He’s so set on getting revenge that he doesn’t even care. Blood drips from his hand onto the floor, but he doesn't even seem to notice. Maybe because the cuts are already healing, skin knitting itself back together in a way no human ever could. Not that Whitlock would notice. He’s too busy focusing on finding a way out of here.
"You stole from me," Ares says as he examines the blade. "Not objects, but information. You corrupted my game." He turns to face Whitlock, and even from where I stand, I can see the slight dark haze beginning to build behind his eyes. "I want to know how. I want to know why. And I want to know who else is involved."
Whitlock's face turns pale, but his chin lifts with surprising defiance. "I have nothing to say to you."
The first cut comes without me expecting it. Ares slices a straight line along Whitlock's forearm, just deep enough to bleed without hitting anything vital.
Whitlock gasps but doesn't scream, which surprises me. Politicians aren't typically known for their pain tolerance.
"Let's start simple," Ares continues, wiping the blade clean on Whitlock's expensive shirt. "How did you access my system? Who helped you get information on Kharon?"
Whitlock's lips press together as if he’s trying to silence himself. His eyes are fixed on some distant point over Ares' shoulder, and I must admit, his resistance is unexpected. I study his face, wondering what could possibly frighten him more than the God of War standing before him. He might not know Ares is actually the God of War, but his presence would definitely get him the lead in any Mythological Greek Hollywood productions.
That could only mean one thing. "He's protecting someone," I say, pushing away from the display case. "Someone he fears more than you."
Ares smiles, a little unconvinced that this is actually possible. His ego is still something he needs to work on.
"Interesting." He makes another cut, this one along Whitlock's other arm, mirroring the first. "Let's explore that fear, shall we?"
What follows is a masterclass of torture. Ares works like an artist, each cut with the intention of inflecting maximum pain, but with minimal permanent damage.
Next on his list, he breaks the smallest finger on Whitlock's left hand with a quick snap, the sound filling the quiet room.
I muffle Whitlock's scream with the hand I clamp over his mouth. We can't risk alerting what’s left of his security, even with Ares' men handling the situation outside. But to our surprise, he resists; his body is shaking with pain, but his mouth stays sealed shut whenever we allow him to speak.
“He once cut a man’s dick off,” I shrug like it’s not a big deal,likehe could definitely do it again.Even right now.
A devious smile spreads on Ares’ lips. “More than once, actually,” he says, looking at me with a certain pride. “But I’ve only done it as a gift once,” he whispers, just for me to hear. And yeah, he’s that fucked up.
“I should feel honored,” I fake a smile, slightly taken aback that he considered that a gift. I’m definitely not telling him when my birthday is.
Not that I know for sure when it is, anyway...
After almost half an hour, Ares' patience wears thin. I’m impressed Whitlock lasted that long, especially since we’ve left him only in his underwear, and Ares has made a red canvas out of his body. But enough is enough. I can see that Ares will bring things to an end soon enough. He selects a different blade and heats it using a windproof torch lighter.
"Last chance," he says, the heated metal casting an orange reflection across his face. "Who are you working with?"
When Whitlock remains silent, Ares presses the hot blade against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. The smell of burning flesh fills the room, almost nauseating, and Whitlock's scream tears through his throat before I can silence him.
"The skin there is particularly sensitive," I say, detached enough to seem like a psycho as I watch tears stream down Whitlock's face. "Try the one behind the knee next. Maybe cut out a tendon. You know… to leave a signature."
Ares glances at me, enjoying my little psychological game before he returns his attention to our captive. "You heard the lady."
The blade moves lower, finding the tender spot where I suggested. This time, Whitlock breaks.
