Page 36 of Inflict

What would it be like for him, if he could become more like his father?

Less prone to pretending. More able—and willing—to embrace the parts of himself that society deemed evil? Capable of not caring beyond the desire to feed into what he liked?

Would he be happy?

Connor wasn’t sure if Sean knew what happiness was, or if he had ever even felt the emotion.

That’s enough of that.

This was exactly why Connor didn’t stay stuck in his own head for too long. He didn’t like the mirror he was forced to look into, or the reflection staring back at him when he did finally give in to temptation.

It didn’t matter, Connor decided as he slipped down the pathway that would lead him to the back of the house. He had business to do.

He could go back to pretending he was normal tomorrow.

Breaching the back entrance of the house took Connor exactly twenty-three seconds. Too long, and not his best time for a break-in, but also not his worst. He always gave himself thirty clear seconds to pick a lock before he just smashed the whole feckin’ door down, but he’d yet to actually need to go that route.

Unneeded attention, after all.

Unsurprisingly, the home had no alarm system, but Connor expected that. In these parts, as well as in Jersey where his father took up residence, the houses that belonged to the bad people were well-known to even petty criminals. Nobody messed around with those homes, if they could help it. It just wasn’t smart.

Stuffing the multi-purpose tool he’d used to pick the lock back into his pocket, Connor also pulled out his weapon of choice for the evening—his favorite red pocketknife. Similar in style and appearance to the one he’d had as a child, this one was larger by two and half inches. It also had a stronger handle that was less prone to breaking, and a blade that cut through skin like a hot knife to butter.

He had many knives—too many to be normal, likely—but this one had been a gift. From his father, of course. One of the very few Sean had given him over his lifetime.

For whatever reason, Connor kept going back to that particular knife, time and time again. It wasn’t something he wanted to look deeper into than he already did.

The house was dark, a silence echoing down the back hallway, while a light flickered somewhere toward the other end. A television likely, probably turned on mute, guessing by the lack of sound.

Connor still stepped lightly as he went in that direction, knowing that appearances were absolutely deceiving in every sense of the word. Just because the house had no alarm, and it was quiet inside, meant nothing.

High ranking members of criminal organizations did not live in the realms of stupidity and ignorance like the rest of the world did. Those men were always prepared—always ready and waiting.

Connor walked forward with that knowledge forefront in his mind.

He passed a bathroom, a kitchen, and an equally-empty study as he neared the spot where the light from the TV was spilling out into the hallway. Just as he came up to the arch-shaped entryway, Connor stopped, his entire form turning into a statue.

The flickering light from the television had stopped for the briefest second, but not because it had been shut off. No, because the light continued to reflect on the hallway wall just the same way as it had been before. It was the briefest flash of something—a shadow—that hindered the flickering light.

And then …

Connor took a single step forward, carefully and quietly.

A floorboard creaked, but it wasn’t from his movements.

He almost chuckled, but that wouldn’t have helped his situation. Instead, Connor purposely took a heavy step, making sure it would be heard loud and clear, and hoping his intended target would act accordingly.

The man did exactly that.

A form came rushing out of the entryway of the main room, a metal bat in hand and wearing only a pair of slacks. The man was already swinging as he came out, looking half-pissed, half-drunk, and ready to kill. Had Connor been a step closer, that bat would have met the side of his feckin’ head.

“Nice swing,” Connor muttered as the man’s eyes met his. The man glanced at his eyes, and then down to the skull bandana covering the lower half of his face. “But you’re still a bit of a bollocks, being drunk and all, eh?”

“Wh—”

Connor didn’t have the desire or patience to listen to a drunk Russian spew profanity at him, or question his motives. He figured it was obvious enough why he was there, and now that he was there, Connor’s anticipation to get the show going was revving and roaring.

The Russian reacted slower than Connor expected, raising the bat for another swing but already too late. Connor grabbed the head of the bat. At the same time, he lifted his knife with careful precision, slicing across four of the man’s knuckles as he yanked the bat towards him.