Page 124 of Shattered In Darkness

He grins, zips himself up. “Good girl. Now, crawl to Brody. Beg him to forgive you.”

She crawls, naked, broken, shivering, tied and bleeding. She kneels before me, eyes red, snot dripping. “I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I’m so sorry, Brody—I⁠—”

Marcus yanks her back by the hair, dragging her to her feet. He spins her, exposing her for all of them to see. “You see this, Brody? This is what hope looks like—gone.” He turns to his men. “You want a taste? Go ahead. She’s not going anywhere.”

The men laugh as they crowd in. Hands grope, pinch, bruise. One shoves her face-down on the table, spreads her legs. She screams, tries to kick, but there are too many hands.

I lose my mind. I lunge, chair scraping, muscles tearing, but nothing gives. I scream until my lungs give out, until I hear nothing but my own pulse.

Marcus steps back, lights a cigarette, and watches it all with bored detachment. “This is what happens when you forget who you are. When you try to take what isn’t yours. There is no escape. No happy ending.” He glances at me, smoke curling from his mouth. “You want it to stop, Brody? You want to save her?”

I nod, desperate, tears streaming down my face.

He smiles. “All you have to do is confess. Admit you never loved her. That she’s nothing. That you only ever wanted to own her. Say it, and I’ll make them stop.”

I choke, the words burning in my throat.

He waits, patient, cruel. “Say it, and it’s over. Or watch her become nothing but a hole for my men.”

Lola screams, blood on her thighs, face mashed into the table. “Brody, please—please⁠—”

I can’t. I can’t. But I do.

I scream it, sobbing, broken. “I never loved her. She’s nothing. She’s just a thing. Just a fucking hole. Please—please stop⁠—”

Marcus laughs, pure delight. He gestures to his men. “Let her go.”

They drop her and she collapses to the floor, a heap of bruises and shame. He crouches beside her and whispers something in her ear. She flinches, then sobs harder.

Standing, he wipes his hands, surveys the carnage. “Consider this a lesson. There is no escape. Not for you, Brody. Not for her.”

He gestures. The men drag her back out the door, away from me. There’s nothing left but the dark. And Marcus’s laughter, echoing in the ruin of everything I ever loved.

41

BRODY

It starts with the needle. I’m on my knees, ankles chained to the ring in the concrete. The warehouse is all light and glass, cold as a morgue, every corner watching.

I hear them behind me. Boots, laughter, the zip of a duffel. Then Marcus, calm as ever. He doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t need to.

A hand fists my hair, yanking my head back. My mouth opens in reflex, but the gag is already in. Filthy, soaked with someone else’s spit. I can’t even curse.

Someone grabs my arm, peels my sleeve back. I thrash, but it’s pointless. The men are too strong, too quick. The needle bites, fire under my skin, and I can feel the world getting slippery.

My vision pulses. Every sound sharpens, every color blurs. The rage is still there—white-hot, wild—but my body is turning useless.

“Good boy,” Marcus purrs. He crouches, his face inches from mine. “That’s compliance. That’s all I ever wanted from you.” He’s wearing a suit, perfect as always. He could be at a board meeting. He could be at a funeral. He could be the one digging the grave. “Bring her in,” he tells his men.

The door bangs open. Lola; she’s half-carried, half-dragged; hair wild, wrists zip-tied. There are black marks on her neck where the collar went yesterday, her lip swollen from the last round.

She’s barefoot, shivering in nothing but a tank top and torn shorts. Her eyes find mine and I feel the world snap.

I try to say her name. The gag turns it to a grunt.

Marcus stands, spreading his arms like a conductor. “Look at you both. My favorite broken things.” He signals. The men dump Lola at my feet. He circles us. “You know what I love about this generation, Brody? Everyone’s always watching. Everyone’s always recording. Everyone’s so desperate to see someone else suffer just a little bit more than they are.”

He gestures. Two more men roll in a tripod, camera already live. There’s a laptop, a red “REC” light. “Smile. Richard will be watching.”